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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


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CHARLES    FRED.    WHITE. 


Plea   of  the    Negro   Soldier 

AND 

A  Hundred  Other  Poems 

BY 
CORPORAL  CHARLES  FRED.  WHITE 

CHAPLAIN  OF  WESLEY  S.  BRASS  CAMP 

NO.  37,   UNITED  SPANISH 

WAR  VETERANS. 


PRESS  OF 

ENTERPRISE  PRINTING  COMPANY, 
EASTHAMPTON,  MASS. 


Copyrighted  1908  by  Charles  Fred.  White. 


This  book  is  lovingly  dedicated  to  my  mother 
and  sisters,  whose  every  prayer  has  been  for  my 
success. 

The  Author. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Plea  of  the  Negro  Soldier     -             -  140 

Preface  9 

Foreword    -  1 1 

I  Thank  Thee,  Lord  17 

Prayer  18 

The  South's  Ungoiden  Rule  19 

Jollity  20 

Meditations  of  a  Negro's  Mind.      I.  21 

"       II.    -  23 

Afro-America  25 

Mediations  of  a  Negro's  Mind.     III.  26 

A  Letter  to  my  Sister     -  27 

The  Holidays  30 

Song  of  a  Summer  Breeze  32 

An  Easter  Morn  35 

An  Incident  36 

Love  39 
Encouragement                                          -       40 

Thoughts  of  Thanksgiving    -  41 
In  Honor  of  Lincoln                                   -       42 

Spring  43 
What  is  Love?                                            -       44 

Past  Memories       -  45 

Sabbath  47 

Play  of  the  Imagination  48 
5 


Despondency     -  49 

War's  Inspiration    -  50 

To  Lillian  -       51 

To  H.  P.  L.  51 

To  the  Girls  of  Kenwood  -       53 

The  Eighth  Illinois  in  Ctrba  54 

The  Eighth  Returning  from  Cuba  -       56 

The  Negro  Volunteer  58 

A  Hymn  of  Counsel       -  60 

December  63 

At  Evening  -       65 

A  Historical  Review  66 

Content  -       72 

Caution  73 

One  Year  Ago  -       74 

Struggle  With  Temptation  77 

A  Tale  of  Hearts  -       78 

A  Blighted  Life  80 

A  Student's  Christmas  Parting  -       83 

Advice  to  a  Friend  84 

The  Minor  Chord  of  Life  -       85 

From  the  Stage  of  Life  86 

Presentation  Poem  -       92 

Hallowe'en  93 

As  We  Should  Be  -       95 

A  Valued  Lesson  96 

A  Western  Reverie       -             -  -       98 


Vale  Dico  99 

On  the  Death  of  Dunbar  101 

Written  at  the  Request  of  a  Skeptic  103 

Written  in  an  Album      -  -     103 

Fidelity  104 

Satan's  Dream  -     105 

To  the  Organ  107 

To  a  Rose  at  Williston  108 

The  Death  of  the  Leaves  10 

Written  on  a  Christmas  Gift       -  12 

My  Sisters  1 3 

The  Day  of  Rest  1 4 

On  the  Gift  of  a  Whiskbroom  15 

On  the  Gift  of  a  Thermometer   -  1 5 

On  a  Clothesbrush  15 

The  Hearts  of  America  -        16 

To  a  Bunch  of  Carnations    -  1 7 

To  a  Friend       -  -        19 

The  Burial  of  the  Past  1 20 

In  May  .      121 

Written  on  a  Christmas  Card             -  122 

A  November  Sabbath  Morn  -     122 

To  the  Wind  of  the  Night                  -  125 

Desolation  126 
He  Who  Laughed  Last,  Laughed  Best         128 

A  Tale  of  a  Youth  of  Brown  -     130 

Meditations  of  a  Negro's  Mind.     V,  132 


A  Memorial  of  Childhood  -      135 

A  November  Eventide  136 

Memorial  Day  in  Easthampton  138 

Meditations  of  a  Negro's  Mind.     VI.  144 

To  Chicago       -  146 

Happiness  is  Heaven  149 

A  Hero's  Deed  -     150 

Consolation                                          .  154 

As  We  Love  So  Are  We  Loved  -      155 

Our  Recompense  156 

To  Williston  at  Parting  -  156 

Louise  158 

Woman             •  159 

The  Birdie  That  Has  Flown  159 

Is  Macbeth  a  "God  in  Ruins?"  -      161 

Williston  Battle  Song  162 

The  Latent  Thought  1 63 

Shakespeare  Modernized  165 

Meditations  of  a  Negro's  Mind.     VII.  166 

To  One  Unknown    -  166 

A  Lover's  Proposal  168 

Only  the  Span  of  a  Life        -  1 70 

Our  Aim  in  Life  -     171 


PREFACE. 

To  all  who  may  perchance  peruse  the  pages  of 
this  book 

These  lines  are  written. 

To  all  who  may  misunderstand  their  meaning 
full  these  lines 

Are  dedicated. 

To   those   of  studious  nature  who  are  wont  to 
criticise 

They  are  submitted. 

To  those  whose  comprehension  will  allow  them 
to  enjoy 

They  are  dictated. 

To  those  whose  curiosity  may  cause  them  to  ob- 
tain 

This  book  to  read  it; 

To  those  who  in  their  lonely  hours   would   be 
consoled  awhile, 

Or  who  may  heed  it; 

To  those  who  love  to  read  the  inmost  feelings 
of  a  soul 

Lonely  and  blighted; 
9 


To  those  whose  hearts  are  kind  and  good  and 
who  with  simple  things 
Are  much  delighted; 

I  recommend  these  unkempt  lines  with  pleasure 
and  good  will 

To  entertain  them:1 

These  murmurings  of  ill  content  and 'happiness 
combined 

With  love  of  nature, 

Encompassing  the  remnant   of  ambitions,  cir- 
cumstance 

Of  which  restrained  them 
From  measuring  their  height,  yet  have  not  their 
persistence  lost 
Nor  temperature. 

Charles  Fred.  White. 


FOREWORD. 

If  you  had  been  deprived  of  an  education  in 
your  early  youth;  if  then  you  had  run  away  from 
home  to  obtain  that  education  and  found,  after 
some  ten  or  eleven  years  of  knocking  and  being 
knocked  about,  that  you  could  not  save  money 
enough  out  of  your  scant  earnings  to  pay  for 
your  schooling;  if,  during  those  years,  you  had 
traveled  through  nearly  every  state  between  Bos- 
ton and  San  Francisco  and  from  Virginia,Ten- 
nessee  and  Arkansas  to  the  southern  part  of 
Canada,  being  compelled  to  work,  generally,  in 
menial  positions  if  you  wished  to  keep  from 
starving;  you  would  not  think  you  had  been  very 
fortunate  in  life. 

If  you  had  walked  the  streets  of  a  great  city 
by  day,  sometimes  with  only  five  cents  in  your 
pockets  and  only  a  scant  meal  in  your  stomach 
for  several  hours,  and  all  one  December  night 
stood  in  the  archway  of  a  church  door  to  rest 
from  a  weary  day  of  job  hunting;  if  you  had  lived 
upon  scant  means,  compelled  to  support  yourself, 
11 


often  being  physically  hungry  in  an  endeavor  to 
satisfy  your  mental  hunger  for  knowledge;  if, 
again,  you  had  been  compelled  to  leave  school 
for  a  year  or  two  because  of  lack  of  means;  you 
would  think  that  yours  was  indeed  a  hard,  rough 
lot. 

If  your  dear,  grayhaired  grandmother,  whom 
you  had  taught  to  write  while  yet  you  were  a 
child  in  turn  for  her  reading,  self  taught,  "the 
Bible  to  you,  had  told  you  how  she  was  cruelly 
sold  from  her  mother  and  sisters  while  but  a 
mere  girl  and  that  she  had  never  again  seen  any 
of  them;  if  she  had  pictured  to  your  infant  mind, 
while  tears  came  stealing  down  her  cheeks,  the 
inhuman  beating  and  torture  administered  to  her 
and  her  fellow  slaves  by  her  "Christian"  mas- 
ters; if  she  had  bared  her  arm,  her  back,  her 
breast,  and  showed  unto  your  childish  vision  the 
cruel  scars,  the  heritage  of  all  her  life  of  bonded 
toil,  which  she  would  bear  until  her  death;  if  she 
had  afterwards  told  you  how  beastly,  how  shame- 
fully, how  disgracefully  she  had  been  treated  by 
those  Caucasian  brutes,  who  distorted  the  Holy 
Word  into  sponsor  for  their  crime;  if  your  grand- 
father had  described  to  you  as  you  sat  upon  his 
knee  the  indignity  and  torture  heaped  upon  him 
and  his  while  he  was  a  slave;  if  your  own  mother 
12 


and  father,  born  in  slavery,  had  related  to  you 
the  insult,  wrong  and  injustice  meted  out  to  them 
after  the  war  by  their  good  white  friends  of  the 
South,  which  they  had  left  never  to  return;  you 
would  hardly  feel  that  any  folk  but  black  folk 
were  your  friends. 

If  you  had  served  your  country  in  the  ranks  of 
the  volunteer  army  in  foreign  war,  when  that 
country  did  not  protect  your  life,  nor  even  your 
property,  at  home,  when  you  could  not  be  sure 
that  upon  your  return  you  would  not  find  that 
some  friend  or  relative  had  been  despoiled  of  life, 
liberty  or  property  without  due  process  of  law;  If 
you  had  afterwards  arrived  one  day  in  Denver, 
Colorado,  tired  and  hungry,  and  been  refused 
anything  to  eat  in  three  or  four  public  restaurants, 
notwithstanding  you  had  offered  money  to  pay 
for  it.especially  when  you  were  neatly  dressed 
and  well  behaved;  if  you  had  plodded  wearily 
through  the  sultry,  dusty  streets  of  the  business 
section  of  St.  Louis,  Missouri,  on  a  hot  summer 
day,  parching  with  thirst,  while  not  a  druggist, 
confectioner,  nor  anyone  else  whom  you  asked 
would  either  give  or  sell  you  a  drink  of  water  or 
soda;  if  then  you  had  walked  across  the  bridge 
over  the  Mississippi  to  East  St.  Louis,  Illinois, 
and  been  given  a  glass  of  warm  dishwater  to 
13 


drink  by  a  man  who  had  been  kind  enough  to 
sell  you  a  sandwich  from  his  lunch  cart;  if  you 
had  been  refused  a  glass  of  soda  phosphate,  to 
relieve  a  depression,  in  a  drug  store  in  the  heart 
of  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  (the  home  of  Secretary 
W.  H.  Taft)  or  a  dish  of  ice  cream  at  the  gate 
of  the  United  States  Army  barracks  at  Fort 
Thomas,  Kentucky,  or  if  you  had  been  "jim- 
crowed"  in  Little  Rock,  Arkansas;  if  you  had 
been  threatened  with  lynching  by  a  mob  of  Mis- 
souri whites  because  you  fought  for  your  own 
rights;  if  even  in  many  places  in  the  North  you 
had  been  proscribed,  ostracised  and  mistreated, 
refused  lodging,  or  recognition  which  you  un- 
doubtedly deserved; — and  all  this  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  your  complexion  is  darker  than 
the  hue  of  those  who  so  misuse  you, — you  would 
surely  think  this  a  wretched  and  ungrateful 
country. 

So,  while  reading  the  poems  on  the  following 
pages,  if  you  think  that  sometimes  they  are  too 
radical  or  harsh,  turn  back  to  this  foreword,  read 
it  again,  and,  taking  for  granted  that  the  author's 
own  experience  is  here  but  briefly  told  and  that 
these  writings  are  based  upon  actual  facts,  con- 
sider whether  they  are  harsher  than  that  exper- 
ience. Then  consider  further  that  this  same 
14 


person  has  absolutely  no  prejudice  towards  any 
human  being  on  account  of  race,  color  or  creed, 
that  he  thinks  as  much  of  one  person  as  of  any 
other,  SQ  long  as  he  is  treated  well  and  justly, — 
for 

The  soul  has  no  color  but  of  eyes, 
Possesses  no  malice,  no  disguise: 
The  soul  knows  no  creed  but  love  and  faith; 
It  knows  only  man;  it  knows  no  race: — 
consider  also  that  he  lives  in  harmony  with  every- 
one who  will  be  congenial  to  him;  and,  after  all, 
ask  yourself  whether  he  is  not  partly  right,  whether 
you  yourself  could  love  a  country  and  a  people 
who  had  treated  you  as  herein  stated. 

C.F.W. 


I  THANK  THEE,  LORD. 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou  hast  brought 
Me  to  this  age,  that  Thou  hast  wrought 
Such  miracles  and  wondrous  things 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  Thy  wings. 
Forever  and  anon  I'll  sing 
The  praise  of  Jesus  Christ,  my  King. 

Tis  Thou  who  made  all  things  we  see; 
Thou  who  hast  always  watched  o'er  me 
While  in  the  toils  of  life  entwined; 
Who  ever  unto  Thee  hast  bound 
Me  with  thy  love,  so  rich  and  kind, 
And  showed  to  me  the  way  around 
All  things  which  blemish  or  would  mar 
Thy  glory,  which  doth  from  me  bar 
The  sinful  fiends  of  wickedness 
Which,  but  for  Thee,  would  me  possess: 
To  Thee  do  I  my  glad  voice  raise; 
To  Thee  I  ever  will  sing  praise. 

Come,  all  ye  lands  and  join  the  throng; 
Sing  out  His  praises  loud  and  long; 
Walk  in  the  path  that  He  has  trod; 
Give  glory  to  almighty  God. 
Come,  join  with  me,  and  we  will  blend 
Our  voices,  and  we'll  heav'nward  send, 
17 


Hosanna!  Thine  the  glory  be 
Who  died  for  us  and  made  us  free! 
1898. 


PRAYER. 

Lord,  our  God  and  Father  up   in   heav'n,   we 

praise  Thy  name: 
May  Thy  kingdom  holy  on  this  earth  e'er  be 

the  same. 
Thou  art  everlasting  through  all  time  .that   is 

to  come: 
Thou  art  ever  welcoming  us  to   our  heavenly 

home. 
Holy,  holy,  holy  Lord,  we  pray  Thee  keep  us 

ever: 
Guide  and  keep  us  in  the  right  and  ne'er  Thy 

succor  sever; 
For,  though  we  may  think  we're  strong,  we; are 

yet  very  weak; 
So  we  lean  on  Thy  great  arm  the  while  Thy 

way  we  seek. 
1398. 

18 


THE  SOUTH'S  UNGOLDEN  RULE, 

OR 

AN  AMERICAN  RIDDLE. 

Contented,  he  was  lured  from  homeland; 

Free,  he  has  been  captive  made; 
Though  human,  he  was  bound  in  chains  and 

Sold  like  beast  in  slavery's  trade. 

Kind-hearted,  he  was  beat  and  tortured, 
Though  resentless,  he  was  killed; 

Forgiving,  was  his  wife  extorted, 
Forced  to  yield  to  brutish  will. 

Obedient,  he  was  made  to  labor; 

Faithful,  he  was  starved  and  scarred; 
Deserving,  he  was  shown  no  favor; 

Handsome,  his  offspring  was  marred. 

Religious,  worship  was  denied  him; 

Truthful,  he  has  been  profaned; 
Though  grateful,  white  men  have  belied  him; 

Dead,  his  corpse  was  torn  and  maimed. 

Progressive,  was  deprived  of  learning; 
Though  respectful,  driv'n  to  shame; 
Though  innocent,  was  lynched  by  burning: 

Has  not  of  his  own  a  name. 
Sept.,  1900. 

19 


JOLLITY. 

Ah!  You're  quite  a  jolly  girl  I  see. 

Where  are  you  from? 
You  are  just  the  kind  I'd  have  you  be; 

You're  full  of  fun;<  ,u*i* 
Always  telling  jokes,  with  pretty  smiles 

Upon  your  face. 
Thus  you  pass  away  the  tiresome  whiles 

With  ease  and  grace. 

.ut-*'  psf.,y-!t>  ox  iiittt*  «._;,•  jaf&stri 
•Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  You  say  you're  always  gay, 

Content  and  free? 
Well,  I  know  you've  been  quite  so  to-day; 

So  full  of  glee. 
It  is  better,  I  suppose*  to  bear 

Life  as  it  comes, 
Let  it  go  as  best  it  may,  and  care 

Not  when  'tis  done. 


Life  is  not  of  such  worth  that  it  ought 
To  be  the  cause*  •->«'*:  j?  ^p: 

Of  a  constant  worry*  making  naught 
One's  pleasant  joys. 

Of  this  short  existence  we  know  but 
Present  and  past: 
20 


Future  lifts  her  veil  not,  lingers  not, 
But  glides  so  fast 

That  no  man  has  ever  felt  her  wrath, 

Nor  heard  her  speak: 
So  we're  blindly  stumbling  'long  her  path 

Each  day  and  week. 
Thus  we  go  through  life  at  her  behest, 

And  we  should  be 
Happy,  with  a  hope  some  day  to  rest 

On  Future's  knee. 
Sept.,  1900. 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  NEGRO'S 
MIND,  I. 

[Read  at  a  mass  meeting  in  the  state  capitol  building 
at  Springfield,  Illinois,  1899.] 

Had  I  a  land  that  I  might  call  my  home, 

I  would  be  glad; 
But  I'm  compelled  this  cruel  world  to  roam 

With  feeling  sad, 
B  ecause  the  Lord,  in  his  wise  way,  preferred 

To  make  me  black; 
Therefore  the  lighter  races  of  this  earth 

Would  keep  me  back. 
21 


Methinks,  sometimes,  it  is  a  hard,  rough  lot 

The  Negro  has  to  bear,  willing  or  not: 

He's  scorned  and  driv'n  about  from  door  to  door 

Without  an  open  ear  to  his  implore; 

Without  a  heart's  being  touched  by  his  sad  plight; 

Without  a  hand  to  help  his  way  to  fight, 

Save  that  of  God,  who  doth  all  things  aright. 

Two  hundred  eighty  years  have  past  and  gone 
Since  first  he  trod  upon  this  unkind  land: 

Two  hundred  eighty  years  of  basest  wrong 
Pollute  this  nation's  history,  to  stand 

As  long  as  this  creation  shall  extend, 

Though  not  recorded  by  historian's  pen. 

The  boasted  pride  sung  by  this  populace, 
The  liberty  and  freedom  talked  upon 

Are  not  enjoyed  by  this  darker  race, 
Although  these  do  by  right  to  it  belong. 

A  flag  which  doth  enshroud  beneath  its  fold 
Such  deeds  of  crime  unwritten  and  untold, 
Save  by  the  hand  and  tongue  of  the  oppressed, 
Or  by  a  friend, —  of  whom  we  few  possess, — 
Is  not  a  flag  of  freedom,  nor  for  right, 
However  long  it  wave,  or  to  what  height. 

Yet,  such  a  flag  does  now  wave  o'er  our  head, 
Intent  our  names  to  hide  of  martyred  dead; 
22 


But  no;  the  Negro's  tongue  shall  not  be  hushed, 
Nor  his  protesting  feeling  e'er  be  crushed, 
Until  the  hand  of  dastard  crime  is  stayed 
And  bound  by  freedom's  laws,  .by  free  men  made. 
May,  1899. 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  NEGRO'S 
MIND,  IT. 

Doth  negro  claim  existence  now 
Who  meek  to  unjust  laws  would  bow 
Without  a  protest  on  his  brow, 

And  call  himself  a  man? 
Doth  live  a  member  of  our  race 
Who  dares  not  coward  villains  face 
To  drive  them  from  their  hiding  place, 

And  thus  for  his  rights  stand? 

Was  e'er  a  dark  hued  infant  born, 
In  childhood  from  Its  mother  torn 
And  reared  up  in  this  land  of  scorn, 

And  yet  doth  love  this  land? 
Was  ever  slave  upon  this  soil 
Contented  year  by  year  to  toil 
23 


While  ne'er,  within,  his  blood  did  boil 
To  unshackle  his  hand? 

Did  e'er,  while  this  proud  nation's  slave, 
A  negro's  heart  within  him  rave, 
Yet,  never  he  an  utt'/ance  gave, 

And  claim  right  to  this  sod? 
Did  e'er  Caucasian  trade  or  bart 
In  human  souls  with  dev'lish  art, 
Nor  once  was  turned  his  stony  heart, 

And  claim  to  serve  his  God? 

Did  e'er  one  of  this  paler  tribe 
Despoil  his  darker  brother's  bride, 
Defy  the  law  with  threat  or  bribe, 

And  boast  an  honored  name? 
Did  e'er  a  statesman  in  this  land 
Boast  of  his  firm  and  rightful  stand, 
Nor  tried  to  loose  the  fettered  hand, 

And  claim  a  right  to  fame? 
March,  1900. 


AFRO- AMERICA. 

[Read  at  a  mass  meeting  in  the  state  capitol  building: 
at  Springfield,  Illinois,  1899.] 

Oh  Country,  'tis  to  thee, 
Land  of  the  lynching  bee, 

To  thee  we  wail. 

How  long  shall  these  base  wrongs 
Pollute  thy  freedom's  songs? 
To  thee  the  right  belongs 

Them  to  assail. 

Our  native  country,  see 
How  we  long  to  be  free 

To  live  and  love. 
We  long  to  see  the  time 
When  this  most  heinous  crime 
Shall  change  to  deeds  divine, 

Like  those  above. 

Let  waitings  swell  on  high, 
Let  rocks,  trees,  hills,  all  cry, 

"God's  will  be  done:" 
Let  Christian  souls  arouse, 
Let  all  our  cause  espouse 
And  keep  our  fathers'  vows 

Ere  ruin  come. 
25 


Now,  gracious  God,  to  Thee 
In  Thine  all-wise  mercy, 

We  do  appeal: 

May  this  land  soon  be  brought 
Out  of  this  doom  it's  wrought, 
For  long,  in  vain,  we've  sought 

Freedom  to  feel. 
May,  1899. 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  NEGRO'S 
MIND,  III. 

I  wonder  why  the  Negro  should  be  hated; 

He  has  done  no  great  wrong  unto  mankind: 
He  was  out  of  the  same  crude  dust  created 

As  all  the  rest  of  human  race,  I  find. 

He's  tried  to  do  the  best  that  he  knew  how  to, 
Although  he  was  oppressed  in  shameful  bond; 

Persisted  not  to  do  what  he  should  not  do; 
To  duty's  call  he  always  did  respond. 

Sept.,  19  00. 

26 


A  LETTER  TO  MY  SISTER, 

Allene,  sweet  sister,  with  the  blood 
Of  youth  yet  coursing  through  your  cheeks, 
I  was  informed,  not  long  ago, 
That  you  had  quit  attending  school. 
What  is  the  cause  that  you  should  act 
So  rashly  as  to  stop  your  search 
Through  that  enormous  library 
Piled  up  by  Time  in  ages  past 
And  guarded  with  unceasing  care 
By  fond  Existence?     I  wish  that 
You  might  know  the  full  value  of 
An  education.     I  think  you 
Would  reconsider  soon  your  act 
And  turn  again  toward  the  path 
Of  learning,  and  would  never  cease 
To  delve  into  the  depths  of  things 
Unthought  by  others.     I  suppose, 
Though,  that  you  have  considered  all 
This  thoroughly,  and  have  resolved 
That  'tis  as  well  for  you  to  stop. 
Yet,  I  cannot  but  think  that  you 
Have  acted  wrongly.     Surely  you 
Will  in  some  future  year  regret 
That  you  have  thought  it  wise  and  well 
To  discontinue  the  pursuit 
27 


Of  knowledge.     I  should  you  advise 

To  get  all  education  that 

Can  well  be  stored  within  your  brain; 

For  nothing  that  you  learn  will  be 

Of  any  disadvantage  to 

You  through  the  life  that  is  to  last 

Until  your  death.     If  you  have  learned 

To  deeply  think  upon  the  things 

Brought  up  in  daily  studies,  'twill 

Help  you  to  think  more  thoroughly 

Into  the  cares  of  daily  life; 

No  matter  what  their  size  or  weight. 

I  was  surprised,  indeed,  and  sad 
To  hear  you  had  determined  thus 
To  forfeit  your  good  chance  to  be 
In  future  time  a  person  of 
Great  wealth  in  wit  and  lore  of  books. 

Since  I  was  taken  out  of  school 
I've  often  wished  that  I  might  find 
An  opportunity  to  go 
To  school  again.     I'd  like  to  have 
A  college  course  of  quite  four  years, 
Which  I  intend  some  day  to  get, 
E'en  though  I  may  be  then  some  years 
A  senior  o'er  my  present  age. 
28 


When  you  and  Lilian  had  begun 

To  study  music,  you  recall 

The  fact  that  you  cared  naught  for  it, 

While  Lilian  studied  much  and  learned 

Quite  readily  to  play:  so  well 

That  afterwards  you  were  inspired 

With  full  desire  to  be  equipped 

To  play  as  well  as  she?     Forthwith 

You  then  began  to  practice  much 

And  study  more  than  you  at  first 

Did  care  to;  so  that  now  you  have 

Succeeded  quite  in  learning  well 

To  chant  the  strains  of  sweetness  deep 

And  melody  upon  the  keys 

Of  the  piano,  bringing  forth 

The  deep  expressions,  beauties  and 

The  symphonies  of  art  and  life. 

So,  in  the  years  when  Lilian 
Has  graduated  from  her  class 
At  high  school,  and  equipped  herself 
With  lore  of  books,  you  will  regret 
That  you  did  not  advantage  take 
Of  time,  then  past,  by  draining  all 
The  books  in  reach  of  their  great  wealth 
Of  countless  treasures,  precious  gems, 
And  hiding  them  away  within 
29 


Your  chest  of  memory,  to  use 
At  times  when  they  are  needed  most. 
Therefore,  I'd  be  much  pleased  if  you 
Would  continue  your  term  of  school 
And  finish  honorably  and  well. 
Nov.,  1900. 


THE  HOLIDAYS. 

T'ward  the  last  of  bleak  December 
When  the  northern  fields  are  bare, 

When  the  trees  are  still  and  leafless, 
And  the  frost  flies  through  the  air, 

When  the  bluebird  has  flown  southward 
And  the  robin  seeks  more  warmth, 

When  wild-goose  and  duck  have  had  their 
Summer  outing  in  the  north, 

Then  the  hare  and  deer  are  hunted 

By  the  jolly  city  folk 
Who  have  left  their  toil  and  business; 

Donned  their  winter  cap  and  cloak. 
30 


Then  the  farmer  has  his  pleasure, 
For  the  harvest  has  been  stored 

In  the  barns  and  sheds  for  winter, 
And  the  fruit  preserved  and  lowered 

To  the  cellar  for  safe  keeping, 
And  the  winter  meat  is  cured. 

Squirrel,  too,  has  hid  his  acorns 
In  some  safe  spot  and  secured. 

When  the  student's  mind  is  wearied 

With  the  studies  of  the  fall 
And  the  melancholy  days  have 

Settled  calmly  over  all, 

Then  begins  a  week  of  pleasure 
Known  to  us  as  "Holidays." 

Christmas  Eve  is  first  to  greet  us 
With  its  joyous  rhymes  and  lays. 

On  this  night  we  hang  our  stockings 

Side  by  side  along  the  wall 
To  be  filled  with  toys  and  sweet  things 

By  Saint  Nicholas,  as  he's  called. 

On  the  next  day,  then,  we  get  up 
When  the  sun  at  early  morn 

Peeps  out  on  the  joys  before  him: — 
Christmas  day,  when  Christ  was  born, 
31 


All  this  day  we're  gay  and  mirthful; 

One  whole  week  is  spent  in  glee; 
Then  comes  New  Year's  day  with  all  its 

Vows  to  be,  or  not  to  be. 

So  the  world  begins  its  journey 

Through  the  coming  year  of  strife, 
Mingling  all  its  joys  and  sorrows 
To  compose  what  we  call  life. 
Dec.,  1900. 


SONG  OF  A  SUMMER  BREEZE. 

I  have  come,  as  it  were,  from  nowhere; 

I  have  no  cherished  home: 
I  am  welcomed  by  high  and  low  folk, 

Wherever  I  may  roam. 

Oft  I  come,  as  a  gust  or  soft  wind, 

With  gentleness  and  glee; 
For  a  while  I  will  linger,  and  then 

I'm  gone  as  silently. 

Though  I  come  over  dismal  marshland, 
I  bring  not  its  foul  air; 
32 


Though  I  come  from  the  grave,  or  death  bed, 
I  bring  not  their  despair; 

Though  I  travel  o'er  plain  and  mountain, 

I  bring  not  weary  hours; 
Though  o'er  desert  I  pass,  or  rockland, 

I've  naught  but  soft,  sweet  flowers. 

Though  the  sunlight  forsake  my  pathway, 

My  heart  seems  light  and  free; 
Though  the  world  may  be  filled  with  sorrow, 

I  bring  it  not  with  me. 

Oft  on  cold  snowy  days  I  fly  through 

The  chilled  and  frosty  air, 
Causing  icicled  trees  to  shed  tears 

While  worn  by  winter's  care. 

In  the  spring  I  revive  the  flowers, 

The  trees,  the  grass;  the  bird 
Sings,  the  bee  and  the  brook  make  music 

As  sweet  as  you  have  heard. 

In  the  summer  I  breathe  on  warm  days 

And  cause  them  to  withdraw 
Their  intense  heat;  I  make  the  green  fields 

The  prettiest  e'er  you  saw. 

As  I  fly  through  the  land,  I  gather 
The  sweetest  for  my  store.— 
33 


Oft  I  come  in  the  sad,  still  autumn 
To  soothe  some  soul  that's  sore. 

I  have  sorrows  and  cares  and  troubles 

As  deep  and  great  as  yours, 
But  I  cover  them  o'er  with  laughter, 

And  bind  them  up  secure 

With  the  chords  of  delight  and  kindness, 
Then  paint  them  well  with  smiles 

And  distribute  them  to  the  lonely 
To  turn  away  the  whiles. 

I  invade  the  repose  of  sick  room 

And  fan  the  fevered  brow. 
In  seclusion  of  love  I'm  list'ning, 

To  mark  the  sacred  vow. 

In  the  solemnness  deep  of  worship, 

In  hour  of  fervent  prayer, 
Oft  I  busy  myself  with  wafting 

A  breath  of  solace  there. 

I  have  come,  from  where?-From  the  unknown, 

A  mystery  I  seem. 
I  shall  pass,  and  no  man  shall  see  me: 

Return  but  as  a  dream. 
Feb.,  1901. 

34 


AN  EASTER  MORN. 

Brightly  now  the  sun  is  shining 
On  this  Easter  Sabbath  morn: 

Voices  heav'nward  are  inclining; 
And  the  sky's  without  a  scorn. 

Beautiful  white  clouds  are  moving 
'Cross  the  broad  expanse  of  blue 

Which  o'erhangs  the  earth,  so  soothing, 
Reflecting  its  azure  hue 

In  the  ponds,  the  streams  and  rivers, 
Lending  color  to  their  depth. 

In  the  breeze  the  dead  grass  quivers 
As  if  it  received  fresh  breath. 

Mildness  hovers  in  the  weather, 
Gently  nursing  Easter's  form 

As  the  rich  and  poor  together 
Nursed  the  baby  which  was  born, 

Years  ago,  within  a  manger 
In  the  far  East,  we  are  told. 

(Though  He  was  to  them  a  stranger, 
They  took  Him  fine  stones  and  gold.) 

Warmth  and  pleasantness  are  keeping 
Hand  in  hand  with  light  and  air: 
35 


Through  the  sod  the  grass  is  creeping: 
Happiness  seems  everywhere. 

Not  more  perfect  in  the  springtime 
Could  a  day  be  than  is  this, 

Stripped  of  all  of  winter's  cold  clime, 
With  a  touch  of  summer's  bliss. 

Yet,  with  all  the  joy  and  sunshine, 

There's  some  rain  beneath  the  sod. — 
Though  a  life  be  mirthful,  sometime 
Through  a  dismal  swamp  it's  trod. 
April,  1901. 


AN  INCIDENT 

A  charming  maid  got  on  the  train 
With  mother  and  her  father, 

Bound  for  the  western  hill  and  plain, 
Expecting  naught  to  bother. 

But  soon  there  came  a  trim  young  man 

Who  rushed  up  to  the  car, 
Excited,  with  expression  wan, 

And  asked  of  me  how  far 
36 


He'd  have  to  go  to  get  some  flowers, 

I  told  him  he  might  find 
Some  at  the  news  stand.     All  his  powers 

Of  haste  he  then  aligned, 

In  order  to  return  before 

The  time  the  train  should  leave; 

For  at  first  sight  he'd  loved  her  more 
Than  she  could  well  believe. 

He  happened  to  be  at  the  same 

Hotel  where  she  had  stayed, 
And  when  she  in  to  dinner  came 

He  saw  and  loved  the  maid. 

He  had  not  met  this  sweet,  French  Miss, 

(Now  formally,  I  mean,) 
But  he  had  learned  her  name  was  "  Thyss," 

When  he  her  face  had  seen. 

He  found  the  flow'rs,  in  haste  returned, 

And  sent  them  in  to  her; 
His  mind  was  wild,  his  heart  had  yearned 

Her  sympathy  to  stir. 

She  knew  him  not,  nor  e'en  had  thought 

That  she  was  thus  admired. 
She  was  surprised  much  and  was  fraught 

With  wonder,  and  desired 
37 


To  see  the  person  who  had  sent 

This  token  of  respect; 
So  to  the  vestibule  she  went 

And  asked  his  name  to  get. 

I  knew  him  not  better  than  she. 

Impatiently  he  paced 
The  platform  along  side  of  me, 

Until  the  maid  he  faced. 

He  tried  to  say  something  to  her, 
But  failed;  his  voice  was  weak; 

His  lips  uttered  a  faint  murmur; 
But  thus  his  heart  did  speak: 

"Comme  le  del  est  si  bleu, 

Pour  vous  mon  pauvre  coeur  est  en  feu; 
Comme  mon  coeur  lest  ce  jour, 

Je  parlerai  d' amour  toujours." 

"  Voulez-vous  m' accepter? 

Puis-je  mon  coeur,  en  fin,  vous  laisser? 
Je  vous  aime,  chere  mademoiselle, 

Et  la,  sans  vous,  mon  coeur  est  frele." 
May,  1901. 


LOVE. 

tPublished  in  the  Exeter  (N.  H.)  News-Letter,  1904.] 

In  the  soul  is  born  a  feeling, 

Or  a  sentiment,  called  love, 
Which  is  nursed,  caressed  and  cherished 

With  care,  tender,  from  Above. 

By  the  law  of  God,  who  made  us, 

By  the  guidance  of  its  like, 
It  selects  a  life  companion 

From  where'er  its  fancies  strike. 

Often  does  it  make  an  error; 

Oft  is  deceived  in  its  find; 
Oft  is  scorned  and  turned  back  coldly; 

Oft  brings  sadness  to  the  mind. 

By  the,  law  of  man  'tis  given 
As  a  trust,  with  cupid's  seal, 

To  be  nurtured,  fondly  cared  for: 
Thus  becomes  life's  woe  or  weak 

By  the  law  of  changeful  nature. 

It  is  made  to  ill  agree; 
In  its  haste  has  oft  been  blinded 

By  some  false  identity. 

On  its  whims  have  hung  great  fortunes, 
Or  the  fates  of  great  careers. 
39 


By  the  sting  of  its  rejection, 

Lives  have  been  engulfed  in  tears. 

Hearts  have  yearned  for  its  fond  presence: 
E'en  grim  Death  has  stayed  his  stroke 

To  permit  this  magic  power 
To  repair  a  heart,  once  broke. 

For  love's  sake  have  lives  been  ended: 
From  its  joy  has  sorrow  fled: 

To  its  care  is  honor  trusted. 

Souls  bereft  of  love  are  dead. 
May,  1901. 


ENCOURAGEMENT. 

'Tis  not  winter  time  yet,  my  dear  heart, 
Though  autumn  has  crept  through  the  air; 

Tis  not  time  to  be  sad  and  lonely; 
There's  no  need  to  live  in  despair. 

The  birds  are  yet  singing  with  sweetness; 

The  grass  is  yet  growing  and  green. 
The  streams  are  yet  rippling  and  merry; 

The  snow-clad  hills  are  not  yet  seen. 

40 


The  flowers  are  yet  full  and  handsome; 

The  squirrel  yet  plays  in  the  trees; 
The  sun  has  lost  none  of  his  lustre; 

There's  some  warmth  yet  left  in  the  breeze, 

Therefore,  dear  heart,  cheer  up,  be  mirthful; 

Throb  not  with  less  vigor  and  vim; 
Thy  blood  flows  as  freely  as  ever; 

Thy  life  is  yet  nourished  by  Him. 
Oct.,  1901. 


THOUGHTS  OF  THANKSGIVING 

Thanksgiving  day  is  coming  soon, 

That  long  remembered  day 
When  nature  gives  her  blessed  boon 

To  all  America. 

On  that  glad  day,  in  all  our  land, 

The  people,  in  their  wake, 
Give  thanks  to  God,  whose  mighty  hand 

Deals  blessings  good  and  great. 

The  roast  goose,  steaming  on  the  plate, 
The  sweet  potato  cobbler, 
41 


The  cranberry  sauce,  the  pudding  baked, 
The  seasoned  turkey  gobbler, — 

All  these  delights  and  many  more, 
From  north,  south,  west  and  east, 

Do  all  the  nation  keep  in  store 
For  this  Thanksgiving  feast. 

Alas,  for  those  who  are  denied 

This  blessed  boon  of  God! 
May  all  the  needy  be  supplied 

Like  Israel  by  the  rod. 
Nov.,  1895. 


IN  HONOR  OF  LINCOLN. 

Hall!  ye  heroes  who  yet  stand! 
Hail  the  martyr  of  our  land! 
Hail  him  who  for  his  country  delved! 
Him  who  the  great  rebellion  quelled! 

Him  who  rent  our  fetters  twain, 
Him  who  broke  the  clanking  chain 
Which  'round  our  lives  did  e'er  entwine, 
Resounding  loud  its  doleful  chime! 

42 


On,  oh  nation,  strong  and  great, 
Though  the  world  predict  thy  fate! 
The  future  may  yet  have  in  store 
Some  deed  to  test  thy  strength  of  yore. 

On,  oh  nation,  in  thy  might, 
Ever  upward  in  thy  flight! 
Hail  Lincoln, — though  to  rest  he's  laid, 
Who  freed  us  by  God's  mighty  aid. 
Jan.,  1896. 


SPRING. 

The  day  is  mild,  the  spring  is  here, 
The  blithest  season  of  the  year: 
Although  the  ground's  o'erlaid  with  snow, 
The  sun  sends  forth  his  warming  glow. 

The  trees  will  soon  begin  to  bud 
And,  as  the  sun  dries  up  the  mud, 
The  dandelion  may  be  seen, 
With  yellow  head  and  clad  in  green. 

The  children  homeward  wend  their  way, 
Some  hurry  on,  some  stop  to  play. 

43 


Their  lessons  for  the  day  are  done; 
From  school  they  march  out,  one  by  one. 

I  see,  across  yon  vacant  space, 

As  through  the  trees  my  visions  trace, 

A  dairy  wagon  with  its  load 

Of  milk  and  butter  on  the  road. 

The  geese  and  chickens  all  are  out 
And  picking  at  the  first  green  sprout, 
As  through  the  shallow  snow  it  peeps, 
While  warm,  spring  wind  above  it  sweeps. 

I  sit  within  my  humble  wall 
Reflecting  over  winter's  fall: 
It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday 
With  kingly  pomp  he  held  his  sway. 
March,  1896. 


WHAT  IS  LOVE? 

Love:  what  is  love; 
That  fascinating  power,  divine, 
Which  fills  the  heart  with  thoughts  sublime, 
Which  causes  men  to  tear  their  hair, 
44 


Which  brings  delight  and  brings  despair 
Into  the  peaceful  mind? 

In  vain,  in  vain,  I've  delved  to  find, 
To  fathom  from  its  mystic  rhyme, 
As  down  the  stealthy  roll  of  time 
It  spreads  its  blessings  o'er  mankind, 
Or,  laughing  wildly  at  his  fear, 
Sends  down  its  vengeance,  year  by  year, 
The  incantations  of  this  word 
Which,  though  I  sleep,  are  ever  heard. 

Perchance,  some  mortal  who  has  found 
Himself  within  this  magic  mound 
Of  uninvited  thought  can  give 
The  explanation  of  this  myth 
Which  has,  by  its  unwonted  skill, 
Defied  the  universe  at  will 
For  these  long  years. 
May.  1896. 


PAST  MEMORIES. 

As  I  look  on  the  dreary  day, 

From  which  the  warmth  of  sun  has  flown, 
My  thoughts  seem  wand'ring  far  away, 

As  though  past  mem'ries  back  had  blown. 
45 


Yet,  while  the  day  is  dark  and  drear 

And  I  am  sitting  all  alone, 
A  thought,  which  brings  to  me  good  cheer, 

Betakes  my  mind  to  home,  sweet  home. 

I  think  of  all  the  loved  ones  there, 
Of  brothers,  and  of  sisters,  too, 

Of  father,  and  of  mother  fair 
Who  guided  me  my  young  days  through. 

Of  grandpa,  also,  old  and  gray, 
In  Tennessee's  far,  southern  land, 

Who  toils  on  sadly,  day  by  day, 
With  withered,  feebly  active  hand. 

Cheer  up,  grandfather,  and  be  gay, 
For,  though  this  life  to  sorrow's  given, 

You  soon  will  leave  and  go  away 
To  your  companion,  now  in  heaven. 

Life  is  but  a  mortal  casing 

For  the  soul  while  here  on  earth; 
Ever  with  an  eye  upraising 

To  our  Father's  heav'nly  hearth. 
Feb.,  1897. 


46 


SABBATH. 

Tis  a  pleasant  Sunday  morning, 

And  the  sun  is  shining  clear, 
Ever  giving  us  a  warning 

That  our  God  is  always  near. 

Now  a  breeze,  as  though  from  springtime, 
Wafts  itself  from  o'er  the  lake, 

Bringing  with  it  all  the  sweet  chimes 
From  the  church  bells  in  its  wake. 

As  the  golden  sunshine  cometh 
Softly  through  my  window  pane, 

As  the  rippling  water  runneth 
O'er  the  pebbles  to  the  main, 

As  the  trees,  in  breezes  swaying, 
Gently  bow  their  heads,  inclined, 

Seems  to  me  I  hear  them  saying; 
"Peace  on  earth  to  all  mankind." 

Now  that  God  is  in  his  Glory, 

Let  us  praise  Him  more  and  more; 
Let  us  sing  the  offertory 

Till  to  Him  on  high  we  soar. 
Feb.,  1898. 


47 


PLAY  OP  THE  IMAGINATION. 

Hark!  I  hear  the  sound  of  singing, 
And  of  sleigh-bells,  gaily  ringing, 
And  the  sound  of  steeds  fast  springing, 
Fleeting  o'er  the  frozen  snow. 

Now  are  cheers  and  bursts  of  laughter! 
Louder,  louder,  as  though  faster, 
Thinking  never  of  disaster, 
While  adown  the  lane  they  go! 

Now  the  sound  of  horns  and  jingles, 
As  a  sweet  voice  with  it  mingles, 
Steals  upon  my  ear  and  tingles, 
Lingers,  while  the  moon  hangs  low. 

Now  the  sounds  are  growing  fainter; — 
Distance  makes  enchantment  daintier 
As  the  hour  grows  still  and  quainter, — 
Till  they  die  away  so  low, 

Scarce  I  hear  them  in  the  distance 
While,  intent,  my  strained  ear  listens 
O'er  the  snow  which  'round  me  glistens: 

Now  they're  gone.-From  memory?-No. 
Feb.,  1898. 


48 


DESPONDENCY. 

I  care  not  how  soon  I  leave  here; 

Leave  this  cruel,  lonely  world: 
I've  a  longing  to  depart  to 

Where  the  flag  of  peace,  unfurled, 

Spreads  its  grand,  celestial  tidings, 
As  it  waves  in  silence  there, 

Through  the  realms  of  the  Creator, 
Far  beyond  this  earthly  air. 

As  I  sit  within  my  chamber 
Musing  o'er  my  wasted  life, 

I  can  think  of  naught  but  sadness 
Intermixed  with  toil  and  strife. 

All  the  world  about  seems  joyous, 
Seems  to  be  o'erfilled  with  glee: 

Nature,  with  inviting  glances, 
Bids  us  all  her  joys  to  see. 

But,  alas!  I  feel  not  cheerful, 
Matters  not  how  bright  the  day, 

For  my  thoughts  are  doleful,  dreary, 
Of  the  mystic  far-away. 

Though  betimes  I  may  seem  joyful 
From  some  outward  look  or  sign, 

49 


Yet,  within,  my  heart  beats  sadly. 
As  with  burden  on  the  mind. 

You  who  read  this  simple  poem, 

Think  not  as  is  here  expressed; 
Tis  a  miserable  feeling 

Thus  to  be  in  mind  distressed. 
Feb.,  1898. 


WAR'S  INSPIRATION. 

If  God  hath  willed  that  I  should  die,— 
And  thus  our  race  name  glorify, — 
While  fighting  amid  war's  alarms, 
'Mid  crashing  shells  and  cannons'  storms, 
While  freedom's  flag  waves  o'er  my  head, 
O'er  dire  remains  of  martyred  dead 
Who  gave  their  lives  and  lent  their  aid, 
Who  faltered  not,  nor  were  afraid 
To  die  upon  the  battle-ground 
With  unfurled  glory  all  around, 
Then,  I  am  full  content  to  die 
And  be  upraised  to  Him  on  high. 
Feb.,  1898 

50 


TO  LILIAN. 

I  knew  not  I  a  sister  had 

With  intellect  so  great, 
Who  loves  all  things  of  nature's  fad 

And  handles  their  great  weight 

With  such  ease  and  dexterity, 
Such  wondrous  grace  and  skill, 

That  warm-hearted  posterity 
With  inspirations  fill 

When  reading  o'er  her  scopic  lines 

Of  philanthropic  trend, 
Imbibing  what  her  verse  defines 

And  what  her  mind  doth  lend. 

Strive  on,  dear  sister,  toward  the  goal 

And  pluck  your  laurels  there: 
Though  sometimes  you  be  on  the  shoal, 

Steer  out,  nor  linger  there. 
April,  1898. 


TO  H.  P.  L. 

Dear  maiden,  please  accept  my  thanks,  wilt  thou, 
For  this  kind  token  of  thy  loving  nature, 
51 


As  I  in  high  appreciation  bow 

Before  thy  queenly  form  of  beauteous  feature. 

Thy  thoughtfulness  and  kindness  in  this  deed 
I  never  shall,  through  countless  years,  forget; 
For,  though  thou  art  not  of  my  race  nor  creed, 
Thou  gavest  me  this  gift  without  regret. 

The  marked  simplicity  of  thy  chaste  ways, 
The  welcome  glow  which  beams  in  thy  bright  eyes, 
The  smile  which  overspreads  thy  face  for  days 
And  weeks  alike,  make  thee  a  living  prize 

For  whom  the  members  of  the  other  sex 
Do  well  to  strive  and  contrive,  day  by  day, 
Endeav'ring,  while  thou  dost  their  brains  perplex, 
Each  one  to  make  thee  his  and  win  the  fray. 

And  I  would  say  to  him  who  doth  succeed 
That,  had  he  searched  o'er  all  this  universe, 
He  would  have  found  no  one  to  better  lead 
Him  through  this  world  of  coldness  and  reverse. 

Thou  art  a  gem  of  rarity  and  worth, 
Of  beauteous  manner  and  of  winning  grace, 
Who  captureth  the  high  esteem  of  earth 
With  winsome  ways  and  ever  smiling  face. 

Thou  scornest  not  the  thought  to  stoop  so  low 
As  to  make  glad  the  hearts  of  sons  of  toil 
52 


Who  are  around  thee  going  to  and  fro 
About  their  work,  endeavoring  to  foil 

The  shirking  fiends  of  laziness  and  make 
Great  preparations  for  commencement  day 
In  which  thou  art  to  modestly  partake 
And  with  the  wings  of  knowledge  fly  away. 

May  all  good  fortune  which  great  God  hath  given 
And  all  success  and  goodness  here  on  earth 
Befall  thee,  and  when  thou  dost  reach  the  heaven 
May  thy  seat  be  before  thy  Father's  hearth. 

This  tribute  to  a  heart  so  great  and  kind 
That  'round  itself  doth  welcome  all  mankind 
I  pay  thee.     I  shall  cherish  while  life  last 
This  fond  memento  of  a  day  soon  past. 
June,  1898. 


TO  THE  GIRLS  OF  KENWOOD. 

[Written  in  Cuba.] 

The  pretty  emblem  of  good  luck, 
Presented  by  brave  hearts  to  me, 

No  hand  but  death  from  me  shall  pluck: 
It  shall  a  fond  memento  be. 
53 


A  picture  of  the  same  appears 
Upon  this  card  of  little  worth, 

There  to  remain,  perhaps  for  years, 
Until  'tis  burned  on  age's  hearth. 
1898. 


THE  EIGHTH  ILLINOIS  IN  CUBA. 

[From  an  essay  read  before  our  Sunday  School  in  camp 
near  San  Luis,  Santiago  de  Cuba.] 

Camped  in  Cuba  in  the  mountains, 
Far  away  from  home  and  friends, 

From  the  precious  civil  fountains, 
In  a  land  of  marsh  and  fens, 

*In  this  church  of  thatch  and  palm  leaf, 

Cut  and  built  by  our  own  hands, 
We  are  holding  Sunday  service 
As  is  done  in  many  lands. 

Far  away  o'er  hill  and  valley, 
Over  marsh  and  mountain  top, 

Over  battle-ground  where  rallied 
Man  and  horse  at  freedom's  knock, 

Over  ruined  mill  and  city, 
Over  waste  of  richest  loam 
54 


Where  the  dove  of  peace  once  flitted, 
But  was  driven  from  its  home 

By  the  shells  of  cruel  cannon 
And  the  swords  of  treachery, 

Fly  our  thoughts  to  home  and  loved  ones 
Whom  we  soon  expect  to  see. 

Over  barren  devastation, 

O'er  a  land  of  wasted  wealth, 

Over  what  was  once  plantation, 
But  now  lies  untilled,  undwelt, 

Far  across  the  stretch  of  ocean, 
Far  beyond  the  sunken  Maine, 

Pray  our  friends  in  deep  devotion 
For  our  safe  return  again. 

But,  instead  of  tears  of  pleasure, 

Some  must  shed  their  tears  for  grief, 
For  depleted  is  our  measure; — 
t Fourteen  rest  the  sod  beneath. 

No  more  reveille  shall  wake  them; 

Taps  has  blown  for  them  its  last; 
Nor  shall  ever  foe  o'ertake  them, 

For  their  fighting  all  is  past. 

Comrades,  over  our  departed 
We  have  fired  the  death  salute; 
55 


Let  us  cheer  their  broken-hearted 

Loved  ones,  grieved  and  destitute. 
Jan.,  1899. 

*Mr.  White,  who  was  adjutant  of  the  regimental  church 
organization,  planned  and  superintended  the  construction  of 
this  building,  which  was  said  to  be  the  first  Protestant  church 
on  that  part  of  the  island.  Several  Cubans  and  soldiers  were 
converted  here,  and  a  baptising  was  held  in  a  stream  near  the 
camp  by  Chaplain  Jordan  Chavis. 

ISix  others  afterwards  died  of  disease  or  accident. 


THE  EIGHTH  RETURNING  FROM 
CUBA. 

Gaily  we  ride  by  the  river, 

Rumbling  o'er  mountains  and  creeks, 
Laughing  and  jolly  as  ever, 

With  warm,  red  blood  in  our  cheeks, 

Riding  through  cuts  in  the  mountains, 
Riding  through  tunnels  in  hills,  * 

By  the  fresh,  silvery  fountains, 
O'er  crystal  cascades  and  rills, 

Through  rural  towns  and  collections, 
Stations  of  various  names, 
56 


High  hills  in  all  the  directions, 
Through  swamps  and  pine-covered  plains, 

Scenery  fine  of  description, 

Beautiful  valleys  and  vales, 
Grandeur  of  wondrous  conception 

Portrayed  on  most  gorgeous  scales, 

'Round  curves  alongside  the  river, 
Under  cliffs  hanging  with  rock, — 

Naught  from  my  mind  e'er  can  sever 
These  scenes  in  memory  locked. 

By  farms  of  modern  perfection 
With  their  storehouses  o'erfilled 

With  produce,  fine  for  selection, 
From  rich  land  thoroughly  tilled, 

Through  forest  and  broad  plantation, 

Hickory,  walnut,  oak,  birch, 
Cities  of  large  population, 

Districts  of  value  and  worth; 

Thus  comes  the  gallant  Eighth  Regiment, 

Volunteered  from  Illinois, 
Back  from  the  Cuban  intrenchment, — 

Brave  band  of  true-hearted  boys. 
March,  1899. 


57 


THE  NEGRO  VOLUNTEER. 

[Written  for  the  National  Standard-Enterprise, 
Springfield,  Illinois.] 

He  volunteered  his  life  and  health 

To  go  to  cruel  war — 
Increasing  thus  his  country's  wealth 

In  soldier  boys  afar — 

To  fight  the  battles  of  a  land 

Which  does  not  him  protect, 
And,  though  great  danger  was  at  hand, 

He  did  not  e'en  object. 

He  went,  it  seemed,  to  certain  death 

By  bullet,  sword  or  scourge, 
Where  dry,  hot  trade  winds  blow  their  breath 

And  rains  the  land  submerge. 

He  knew  well  when  he  left  his  home — 
Though  home  it  did  not  seem,— 

In  Cuba's  far  off  wilds  to  roam, 
That  death  raged  there  supreme; 

That  Spanish  treachery  and  hate, 

That  fever's  dreaded  ills, 
That  rain  and  heat  and  heavy  weight 

While  on  the  march  or  drills, 

Awaited  him  his  fate  to  seal, 
His  life-blood's  wall  to  break, 
58 


To  laugh  in  scorn  when  he  should  reel 
And  fall,  no  more  to  wake. 

Though  monsters  such  did  him  confront 
And  threaten  him  with  death, 

His  bravery  they  could  not  daunt, 
But  made  him  fear  the  less. 

Of  such  brave  hearts  as  he  does  own 
A  land  might  well  be  proud, 

Enforce  the  laws,  protect  his  home, 
His  all,  from  lawless  crowd.. 

The  bird  doth  soar  in  lofty  space; 

The  fish  doth  swim  the  sea. 
The  beast  doth  field  and  forest  pace, 

The  Negro — where  hath  he? 

The  bird  at  night  flies  to  her  nest. 
The  beast's  home  is  his  lair, 

The  fish  in  quiet  nook  doth  rest,    ' 
The  Negro  must  despair 

Because,  alas,  he  hath  no  home,' 

No  place  to  lay  his  head 

That  he  can  truly  call  his  own; 

"  Nor  e'en  when  he  Is  dead 

Doth  his  lone  grave  remembrance  gain, 
In  hearts,  save  of  his  kind; 
59 


Nor  is  it  marked  by  tomb  of  fame, 

Nor  wreathed  with  flower  nor  vine. 
June,  1899. 


A  HYMN  OF  COUNSEL. 

[Published  in  the  National  Standard-Enterprise-] 

To  him  who  knoweth  not  the  value  of  his  life, 
Nor  careth  aught  for  that  which  elevateth  him, 

Who  findeth  existence  to  be  a  constant  strife, 
Who  brings  upon  himself  despair  or  sorrow  dim, 

1  would  recite  this  simple  poem  of  advice 

And  beg  him  to  accept  without  return  of  price. 

For,  though  it  come  not  from  most  learned  brain 

of  man, 

Nor  may  of  classic  nor  of  cultured  language  be, 
This  simple  lay  may  cause  someone  to  better  scan 
The  prospects  of  his  being,  or  more  plainly  see 
The  need  of  education,  or  of  moral  worth, 
Which  two  combined  bring  comfort,  peace  and 
joy  to  earth. 

I  would  first  say  to  him:  be  honest,  good  and  true; 

Be  faithful  to  thyself  and  value  self-respect; 
Do  all  that  is  within  thy  scope  and  power  to  do 

To  keep  thyself  and  others  prudently  erect; 
60 


Observant  ever  be  of  great  and  common  things, 
And  listen  to  the  songs  which  reverend  nature 
sings. 

Betake  thyself  within  secluded  walls  of  thought, 

And  there,  in  loneliness,  portray  thyself  to  thee, 

Arrayed  in  all  thy  foolish  waste,  so  dearly  bought, 

Which  causeth  oft  thy  heart  to   droop  and 

downcast  be, 

And  fathom  from  beneath  this  mass  of  malcontent 
Thy  better  nature  which  was  downward  crushed 
and  pent. 

Then  raise  it  gently  up  from  out  its  gloomy  nest, 
Support  it  with  the  strong  arm  of  thy  will  and 

sense 

And  cherish  it  with  all  the  life  within  thy  breast, 

And  it  will  grow  so  rapid  and  with  glow  intense, 

'Twill  blossom  in  the  springtime  of  its  newer  birth 

And  bid  thee  pause  to  view  the  goodness  of  the 

earth. 

If  thou,  perchance,  should  find  thee  restlessly 

engaged 
In  wav'ring  contemplation  o'er  thy  changing 

ways, 
Dislodge  these  diabolic  thoughts  from  off  their 

stage; 

61 


Think  not  of  wrong,  but  of  the  beauty  of  these 

lays. 

Beget  thee  to  the  avenues  of  shining  light, 
For  danger  lurks  about  in  shadows  of  the.  night. 

Go  willingly  unto  the  fountain  of  success, 

Fed  by  the  spring  of  learning,  beautified  by  love, 

And  drink  thou  of  it  freely,  that  thou  may  possess 

The  mighty  power  of  knowledge,  sent  from 

Heav'n  above; 

For  education  is  a  wealth  of  untold  worth 
Which,  once  acquired,  can  ne'er  be  lost  by  thee 
in  earth. 

Full  many  kingdoms  in  himself  doth  man  possess, 
The  thrones  of  which  are  oft  usurped  by  evil 

power; 
Grim    indolence,    the    solemn    death-knell    to 

success, 

Doth  lurk  about  in  ev'ry  hidden  nookand  bower. 
Simplicity  is  greatness,  born  within  itself, 
And  plainly  marks  all  greatest  deeds  and  thoughts 
of  wealth. 

I  mprove  thy  time  and  talent  while  'tis  yet  in  reach. 
Strive  hard  to  grasp  a  branch  of  fame's  exalted 

tree; 

Take  heed  to  that  which  doth  great  elevation 
teach; 

.62 


Mark  well  each  lesson  learned,  for  'twill  of 

value  be; 
Love  thou  all  things  which  tend  to  principle  of 

right; 
Keep  all  good  deeds  of  men  always  within  thy 

sight. 

But  if  thou  thinkest  that  thou  needest  counsel  not, 
Or  that  thou'rt  wise  enough  and  strength  hast 

to  endure 
These  worldly  battles  often  waged  long,  fierce  and 

hot, 
Heed  not  the  simple  words  and  teachings  of 

the  pure, 

And  thou  shalt  pass  into  the  vast  oblivion's  doom 
Where  naught  but  sorrowful  regretfulness  doth 

bloom. 
June,  1899. 


DECEMBER 

The  days  are  short,  the  air  is  cold, 
The  bleak  wind  stirs  the  lifeless  trees, 

The  sun  sends  forth  faint  rays  of  gold, 
While  Autumn  rests  at  peace  and  ease. 
63 


The  summer  birds  have  flown  away 
To  warmer  climes  and  greener  shores, 

And  little  snowbirds  chirp  their  lay 

While  picking  crumbs  from  kitchen  doors. 

The  cows  are  milked  within  the  barn, 
The  horses  bridled  in  the  stall, 

The  geese  and  chickens,  to  keep  warm, 
Stand  on  one  foot,  but  never  fall. 

The  children,  playing  on  the  lawn, 
Are  building  snow  men  at  the  gate, 

Or,  having  done  that,  they  have  gone 
Out  coasting,  hitching,  or  to  skate. 

The  school  has  closed  for  holidays 
And  Santa  Glaus  will  soon  be  here 

To  turn  the  melancholy  rays 
Into  a  week  of  mirth  and  cheer. 

The  present  year  will  soon  be  past, 

For  it  is  old  and  feeble  now, 
And  o'er  December's  bier,  at  last, 

Must  New  Year  make  his  reverent  bow. 
Dec,,  1896. 


64 


AT  EVENING. 

Evening  sun  beams  not  upon  me 

As  I  sit  in  silent  shade 
Musing  o'er  this  earthly  dwelling, 

Which  to  rest  must  soon  be  laid. 

Ah,  my  heart  grows  sad  and  weary; 

As  I'm  dreaming,  all  alone, 
Night  is  drawing  swiftly  onward, 

And  I'm  "One  day  nearer  home," 

Stealthily  the  night  brigades  are 
Creeping  o'er  the  walls  of  day 

To  attack  him  in  his  weakness, 
Conquer  and  drive  him  away. 

Soon  the  hosts  of  knights  of  Darkness, 
With  their  glittering,  starry  shield, 

Will  usurp  Day's  throne  and  fortress 
And  a  while  his  sceptre  wield. 

Then  the  gallant  Day  will  muster 

All  his  forces  for  the  fight 
And  with  light  and  rays  of  sunshine 
Drive  the  foe  fast  from  the  site. 
Sept.,  1899. 


65 


A  HISTORICAL  REVIEW. 

In  fourteen  hundred  ninety-two 

America  was  found 
And  olden  theory  proved  untrue — 

That  earth  was  square,  not  round. 

In  fourteen-ninety-seven,  then, 

John  Cabot  started  out, 
Resolving  straight  across  to  wend, 

And  shortened  much  the  route. 

In  1506  Columbus  died, 

A  prisoner  in  chains, 
Although  for  several  years' he'd  cried 

For  freedom  from  these  pains. 

In  fifteen  hundred  sixty-five 
St.  Augustine  was  founded, 

And  ever  since  has  stood  and  thrived, 
Though  centuries  have  rounded. 

In  1607  Jamestown's  homes 
Appeared  among  the  wild — 

And  here  begins  a  tale  of  woe 
Of  this- land's  orphan  child. 

In  1619  Slavery's  wrong 

Disgraced  our  country's  page 
66 


And  made  a  blot  so  deep  and  long, 
Twill  last  through  countless  age. 

In  seventeen  hundred  seventy-five, 

Oppressed  by  English  law, 
The  colonists  a  plan  contrived 

To  wage  a  freedom's  war. 

In  1781  they  gained 

The  object  of  their  strife; 
Ungratefully  they  tighter  chained 

The  slave  to  misery's  life. 

In  70  brave  Attuck  shed 

His  life-blood  in  the  fight, 
The  first  of  all  this  country's  dead 

To  die  for  freedom's  right. 

E'er  since,  in  all  this  nation's  wars, 
The  Negro's  played  great  part, 

Glad  always  to  defend  her  cause 
From  depth  of  his  brave  heart. 

In  '65  he  fought  the  South 

To  save  the  nation's  name: 
An  accident  which  came  about 

Freed  him  from  slavery's  chain. 

Two  hundred  years,  and  more,  they'd  kept 
Him  'neath  this  cruel  rake, 
67 


The  while  the  nation's  conscience  slept; 
Nor  did  it  once  awake 

Until  secession's  mighty  gun 
At  Bull  Run  so  did  pelt  her 

That  she,  alarmed,  compelled,  did  run 
To  Washington  for  shelter. 

'Twas  then  the  thought  within  her  mind 

Occurred  to  free  the  slave, 
If,  by  this  action,  she  could  find 

A  mode  her  name  to  save. 

Thus,  now,  you  see,  the  orphan's  free, 
So  far  as  slavery's  counted, 

Yet  he  is  burned,  and  hanged  to  tree, 
And  chased  by  fiends  well-mounted. 

Accused  of  crime,  though  innocent, 
He's  tortured  with  strange  pleasure: 

The  wailings  of  his  soul  are  lent 
To  swell  her  song's  blank  measure. 

Since  he  was  freed  he  has  progressed 
And  all  the  world  astounded, 

For  ne'er  have  other  men  possessed 
Such  intellect  unbounded. 

Though  hearts  of  stone  and  calumny 
Will  persecute  and  murder, 

68 


He  bears  his  cross  to  Calvary, 
Nor  falls  beneath  his  burden. 

In  '98  he  volunteered 

To  fight  for  human  cause 
In  foreign  land,  yet,  while  he  steered 

His  son  or  brother  was 

Strung  up  to  tree,  or  stake,  or  post 
And  tortured,  cut  and  burned 

And  sold  by  pieces  to  a  host 
Of  dastard  hearts  which  turned 

To  look  upon  such  awful  sights, 

Unequaled  on  this  earth 
By  cannibals  or  savage  rites, 

With  coolness  and  with  mirth. 

At  El  Caney  and  San  Juan 
He  faced  the  poisoned  lead 

And  victory  brought  from  among 
Defeat  and  heaps  of  dead. 

He  lay  in  trench,  in  mud  and  mire, 
Through  rain,  heat  and  disease, 

Nor  ever  once  expressed  desire 
That  awful  place  to  leave. 

O'er  dead  Caucasian  boys  he  rushed, 
O'er  some  crouched  down  with  fears, 
69 


While  from  his  wounds   his   warm    blood 
gushed 

And  mingled  with  their  tears 

.-,. 

He  cut  the  barbed  wire  fences  down 

Which  did  impede  his  way 
And  stormed  blockhouses  on  the  crown 

Of  hills;  thus  gained  the  day. 

He  cried  when  he  was  not  allowed 

To  enter  in  the  city 
The  same  day  that  up  hill  he  plowed, 

And  thought  it  a  great  pity 

That  he  might  not  pursue  the  foe 

Into  his  place  of  refuge 
And  strike  at  once  the  final  blow, 

Thus  end  the  war's  grim  deluge. 

He  also  garrisoned  the  land 

His  bravery  had  conquered 
And  made  a  record  which  will  stand 

Among  the  world's  most  honored. 

And  now,  that  war  is  waxing  hot 

In  far  off  Philippines, 
And  boys  of  lighter  hue  do  not 

Equal  their  task,  it  seems,. 

There's  been  some  talk  of  sending  there 
To  bring  things  to  a  close, 
70 


This  orphan  child  of  curly  hair, 
Broad  mouth  and  flattened  nose, 

In  southern  part  of  this  "free"  land 

He's  not  allowed  to  vote: 
They've  tied  our  Constitution's  hand 

So  that  he  might  be  smote* 

If  he,  perchance,  commit  a  crime, 
He's  hanged  'thout  court  proceedings; 

His  guiltless  kin,  too,  at  the  time 
Are  killed,  despite  their  pleadings. 

He's  guiltless  oft  of  crime  alleged, 
(Which  often  has  been  proven,) 

But  fiends  their  wealth  and  life  have  pledged 
To  stagnate  law's  just  movement. 

Will  someone  lend  a  helping  hand, 

Or  sympathizing  heart, 
Or  honor  pledge  and  life  to  stand 

For  right  on  this  child's  part  ? 

O,  human  beings  of  this  earth, 
Arouse  your  dormant  sense 
Of  right,  give  merit  its  true  worth 

And  claim  your  recompense! 
Sept.,  1899. 

71 


CONTENT. 

Toiling,  toiling  all  day  long 
With  his  will  and  might, 

Humming  tune,  or  whistling  song 
From  the  morn  till  night: 

Ever  happy  at  his  work, 

Ever  gay  and  free, 
Never  does  he  duty  shirk, 

But  content  is  he. 

Cheerful  is  his  little  home, 
Though  of  meagre  size, 

Ne'er  he  cares  from  it  to  roam, 
There  his  treasure  lies, 

There  his  heart's  delight  is  found, 
There  his  joy  and  pride, 

With  his  children  playing  'round, 
Sweet  wife  by  his  side. 

Early  does  he  rise  at  morn, 

To  his  work  he  goes 
His  day's  duty  to  perform 

Without  pain  or  woes. 

Fully  well  is  he  aware 

Of  his  family's  needs, 
Amply  does  he  store  prepare, 

And  always  succeeds. 
72 


Thus,  the  happy  father  lives 
For  his  children's  sake; 

Thus,  to  them  example  gives 

Of  which  they  partake. 
Sept.,  1899. 


CAUTION. 

The  voice  speaks  often  words  which    are   not 

uttered: 

The  face  oft  portrays  feelings  not  intended: 
The   smile   expresses   things   which   would  be 

smothered: 

The  mind  revives  some  scenes  which  are  long 
ended: 

So  measure  well  the  word  before  'tis  spoken 
And  study  thoroughly  before  you've  written, 

For  careless  words  oft  cause  hearts  to  be  broken, 
And  writing,  misconstrued,  great  hopes  has 
smitten. 

Learn  to  control  at  all  times  your  emotion; 

Don't  laugh  at  others'  accidents  or  errors; 
Don't  execute  your  every  whim  or  notion, 
Nor  do  things  which  will  cause  you  future 
terrors. 

73 


Consideration  should  be  first  in  all  things,— 
The  execution  is  subsequent  matter, — 

For  hastiness  oft  trouble  brings  that's  galling 
And  sadness  o'er   the   world   promotes   and 
scatters. 

Nothing  is  known  until  'tis  well  experienced: 
No  man's  so  wise  that  he  cannot  be  wiser: 

Judge  not  a  person  only  by  appearance: 
Call  no  man  fool,  he  may  be  your  adviser. 

Sept.,  1899. 


ONE  YEAR  AGO. 

Just  one  year  ago  we  broke  camp 

In  the  distant  Cuban  plain 
And  began  our  joyful  home  tramp 

On  the  transport  and  the  train. 

But,  though  far  from  lonely  birth  land, 

I  was  happy  and  content; 
I  was  filled  with  joy  and  mirth  and 

Happiness  where'er  I  went. 

In  the  lonely  life  of  camping, 
In  the  mountains  wild  and  drear, 
74 


Or  when  through  the  country  tramping, 
Strove  I  to  be  of  good  cheer; 

For  I  loved  to  ramble  often 

Through  sweet  nature's  gorgeous  realms: 
She  has  power  to  soothe  and  soften 

That  which  naught  else  overwhelms. 

By  the  lonely  brook  and  river, 

Laughing  in  their  solitude, 
Where  the  leaves  in  soft  breeze  quivered 

And  all  seemed  with  life  imbued, 

Where  the  birds  were  gaily  chirping, 
Where  the  fish  in  deep  pools  played 

And  the  timid  deer  were  lurking, 
Where  the  bees  their  honey  made, 

In  her  solemnness  of  silence 

Nature  was  at  home  to  me. 
In  the  calmness  of  that  island 

I  did  live  contentedly. 

I  was  wont  to  sit  in  quiet, 

Or  to  roam  in  loneliness 
Through  the  country  wrecked  by  riot,— 

But  which  now  by  peace  is  blessed, — 

Studying  language,  people,  action, 
Or  the  vegetation  there, 
75 


Gazing  with  much  satisfaction 
On  the  products,  rich  and  rare. 

Plodding  o'er  the  rugged  highlands, 
Through  the  marshy  lands  below, 

I  would  pass  away  the  whiles  and 
Watch  the  minutes  come  and  go. 

I  would  sit  sometimes  for  hours 
Basking  in  the  sun's  warm  rays 

While  a  stream  'neath  shady  bowers 
Sang  to  me  its  favorite  lays. 

I  partook  in  games  athletic 

Which  were  held  among  the  boys, 
I  beheld  scenes  so  pathetic 

That  they  saddened  all  my  joys. 

While  disease  and  death  were  raging 
In  the  towns  and  camps  around, 

While  their  friends  were  busy  placing 
The  deceased  beneath  the  ground, 

I  was  well  kept  and  protected 
By  some  power  of  the  Unknown, 

Which  also  my  way  directed 
As  I  through  the  wilds  did  roam: 

So  I  lived  in  sweet  communion 
With  the  worlds  of  blue  and  green 
76 


By  horizon  linked  in  union, 

In  that  heaven -land  of  dream. 
March  9,  1900. 


STRUGGLE  WITH  TEMPTATION. 

What  is  this  haze  which  now  I  feel, 
Which  stealthily  begins  to  steal 
About  me?     Tis  some  magic  power 
Which  comes  at  this  belated  hour 
To  wind  me  in  its  grasp.     'Tis  strange 
This  feeling  should  my  mind  derange 
And  cause  me  such  alarm,  for  I 
Have  ne'er,  in  all  these  years  passed  by, 
Encountered  such  an  influx  of 
Marauding  thought,  so  hard  to  solve 
As  this  which  now  has  come  to  pass. 
Methinks  awhile  some  stupor  has 
O'ershadowed  me,  and  bound  my  brain 
And  dimmed  my  eyes,  so  that  in  vain 
May  I  attempt  to  delve  into 
The  fath'mless  depths  which  now  accrue. 

It  matters  not,  it  seems,  how  much 
Effort  I  bring  to  bear  to  touch 
The  key-note  of  this  instrument; 
77 


The  selfsame  mystery  in  extent 
Enshrouds  its  impregnable  fort. 
Defiance  even  seems  to  court 
Its  presence  when  from  wary  tent 
Of  Indignation  he  is  sent 
To  battle  with  this  monster,  turn 
A  traitor  and  betray  the  urn 
Which  nourished,  kept  and  cherished  him, 
Thus  cause  his  guardian  much  chagrin. 
My  wits  seem  somewhat  baffled  by 
The  presence  of  this  mighty  spy. 
I  scarce  can  get  my  thoughts  composed 
To  right  myself.     I'm  half  disposed 
To  cease  this  struggle  and  allow 
Full  sway  to  the  usurper,  bow 
Submissive  at  its  feet,  betake 
Myself  within  the  walls  of  fate 
And  there  remain  for  aye,  or  till 
Such  time  that  I  may  pass  at  will 
Without  this  dazed  compulsion,  free 
To  think  and  act  contentedly. 
May,  1900. 


A  TALE  OF  HEARTS. 

One  night  while  walking  'long  the  street, 
Returning  from  the  choir, 
78 


A  young  man  was  involved  in  thought 
Which  burned  as  though  'twere  fire; 

For  he  had  seen  a  girl  in  church, 
Whom  he  had  known  before, 

Whose  pleading  eyes  and  saddened  face 
Seemed  deeply  to  implore 

His  acquiescence  to  escort 
Her  home  at  close  of  church. 

He  had  denied  her  the  request 
And,  thinking  she  might  search 

The  crowd  for  him,  had  gone  out  at 

A  side  door  close  to  me 
And  waited  till  he  saw  her  leave; 

Yet  did  it  not  with  glee. 

Twas  sad:  the  girl  loved  him,  and  said 

He  was  her  heart's  desire: 
That's  why  his  mind  was  so  involved 

With  thought  which  burned  like  fire. 

He  did  not  wish  to  mistreat  her, 

But  he  did  not  love  her: 
To  cherish  her  fond  hopes,  then  blight 

Them,  he  did  not  prefer. 

So  he  was  meditating  as 

To  what  course  he  should  strike 
79 


When,  looking  just  ahead  of  him, 
He  saw  three  hearts  alike. 

At  first  he  thought  to  crush  them  all 
And  leave  them  to  their  fate, 

Then  quickly  thought  that  he  would  spare 
Them, — but  it  was  too  late: 

The  blow  was  struck;  one  frail  heart  broke 

And  severed  into  parts: — 
I  know  not  what  became  of  it — 
But  those  were  candy  hearts. 
June,  1902. 


A  BLIGHTED  LIFE. 

In  the  southland  of  this  country 
Lived  a  happy,  wedded  pair: 

Each  content  was  with  the  other, 
And  their  hearts  knew  no  despair. 

They  were  of  Caucasian  lineage, 
Or,  at  least,  'twas  thought  they  were, 

And  no  one  had  e'er  disputed 
This,  their  claim,  I  may  aver. 

She  was  fair,  of  modest  beauty, 
Soft  her  hair  of  light  brown  hue: 
80 


He  was  darker  of  complexion 
And  his  hair  was  darker,  too. 

So  they  lived  together,  happy, 
Never  questioning  their  birth; 

Lived  in  love  and  adoration 
Close  as  nature  lives  to  earth. 

But  ere  long  they  both  grew  restless 
And  they  left  the  balmy  South, 

Moved  to  that  great  northern  city 
At  the  Hudson  river's  mouth. 

They  were  soon  seen  out  in  public 
And  occasioned  much  comment. 

Said  the  gossips;  "He  is  colored." 
This  was  said  where'er  they  went. 

Thus  continued  they  their  meddling 
With  this  couple's  happiness: 

Thus  their  prejudice  they  vented, 
These  two  young  hearts  to  depress. 

Then  they  said  to  her;  "He's  colored: 
Has  Negro  blood  in  his  vein." 

Thus  tormented  they  the  young  bride 
Till  her  heart  relaxed  in  pain; 

Till  her  soul  cried  out  within  her: 
"Is  it  true; — and  if  it  be, 
81 


Can  I  not  still  live  and  love  him? 
Can  he  not  still  live  for  me?" 

"Can  we  not  remain  together? 

I  do  not  question  his  kin. 
It  may  be  true, — yet,  I  love  him. — 

Can  there  be  a  diff  rence,  then?" 

Thus  she  wailed  and  strove  with  reason. — 
Would  she  overcome  the  blow? 

Could  she  not  raise  an  embankment 
That  would  dam  their  gossip's  flow? 

No — alas !  her  heart  was  failing. 

They  would  separate,  she  thought: 
So  decided  she  and  acted; 

Left  him,  and  a  fairer  sought. 

But  her  soul  was  not  contented: 
She  could  love  no  one  but  him, 

For  her  life  to  his  was  mated. 
God  had  made  their  souls  a  twin. 

Thus  some  people  of  this  country, 
Who,  by  chance,  are  very  light, 

Tear  asunder  the  Almighty's 

Work  and  claim  that  they  are  right. 

Is  there  not  some  power  of  conscience 
That  will  cleanse  their  hearts  and  souls? 
82 


Are  there  no  Caucasian  Christians 

'Tween  these  two  terrestrial  poles? 
July,  1903. 


A  STUDENT'S  CHRISTMAS 
PARTING. 

[Published  in  the  Exonian,  Phillips  Exeter  Academy.] 

Farewell,  ye  halls  of  red  and  gray! 
Nay;  Au  revoir!  I'd  rather  say! 
Ye  campus  grounds  now  bleak  and  drear ! 
Ye  buildings  to  my  heart  made  dear ! 
Ye  chapel  walls,  your  songs  bestir ! 
I  leave  you  now,  old  Exeter. 

Ye  books  and  pen  I  lay  aside 

To  rest  you,  calm  and  unespied. 

I  go  to  greet  the  coming  year, 

To  welcome  him  with  mirth  and  cheer. 

Vacation  time  is  near  at  hand 

When  all  is  joy  throughout  our  land. 

Ere  long  again  I'll  greet  you  all, 
And  from  your  slumber  calm  I'll  call. 
I'll  bring  with  me  a  newer  strain 
To  fill  your  corridors  again. 
*   83 


I'll  bring  with  me  a  heart  so  free 
'Twill  fill  your  stolid  walls  with  glee. 

The  folk  at  home  are  waiting  now; 
Already  is  the  holly  bough 
Made  into  wreath  of  red  and  green 
To  grace  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
Again,  ye  hall  and  corridor, 
I  turn  to  bid  you,  Au  revoir ! 
Dec.  ,1903. 


ADVICE  TO  A  FRIEND. 

You  say  that  virtue  is  its  own 
Reward:  I'm  sure  that's  widely  known, 
Yet,  while  I  wish  not  to  pursuade 
You  to  refuse  the  request  made, 

I  think  that  our  reward  is  found 
When  satisfaction  does  abound 
In  feeling  that  our  work  is  not 
Ungratefully  scorned  or  forgot. 

For  no  reward  can  truly  be 
Unless  received  with  feeling  free, 
Unless  'tis  given  from  the  heart, 
Unless  'tis  made  of  life  a  part. 
84 


We  often  may  feel  that  we  should 
Our  talents  lend  for  doing  good; 
We  also  oft  may  later  find 
That  the  return  is  quite  unkind. 

So  I  should  say,  be  sure  that  you 
Consider  well  the  step  in  view, 
Yet  do  not  fail  to  full  regard 
That  virtue  is  its  own  reward. 
Feb.,  1904. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  OF  LIFE. 

[Published  in  the  Exeter  News-Letter.] 

Is  there  not  a  hand  of  power 
That  can  stay  the  wheel  of  fate? 

Is  there  not  a  soothing  hour 

For  sad  hearts  that  mourn  and  wait? 

Can  no  recompense  their  longings 

Find  while  wand'ring  through  this  life? 

Must  no  sunlight  pierce  their  mornings 
With  its  many-pointed  knife? 

Must  they  wander  through  existence 
With  their  heavy  burdens  bent? 
85 


Must  no  heart  lend  them  assistance? 
Must  no  hope  to  them  be  lent? 

Fain  would  some  assistance  offer, 

But  it  satisfies  them  not; 
Others  fain  would  comfort  proffer, 

But  their  comfort  comforts  not. 

Some  would  gladly  shelter  give  them, 
But  the  storms  still  rage  within; 

Others  with  bright  hopes  would  cheer  them, 
But  to  them  all  hopes  are  dim. 

These  sad  hearts  possess  a  longing 
Which  no  earthly  power  can  soothe; 

There's  a  strain  to  them  belonging 
Which  the  hardest  heart  would  move. 

Yet,  these  souls  are  meek,  forgiving, 

Patient,  though  time  nothing  brings.— 
Life  would  not  be  worth  the  living 

If  no  sorrow  tuned  its  strings. 
April,  1904. 


FROM  THE  STAGE  OF  LIFE. 

Once  there  was  a  happy  youth 
With  heart  as  light  and  free 
86 


And  gleeful  as  a  lamb  at  play, 
As  merry  as  could  be. 

No  morning  sun  e'er  rose  on  him 

That  did  not  see  him  smile; 
No  evening  twilight  sank  to  rest 

And  left  him  sad  the  while. 

No  bird  at  daybreak  sweeter  sang 

Than  did  his  whistling  note; 
No  youth  nor  maiden  was  more  kind, 

Nor  any  kinder  spoke. 

But  now  those  days  have  long  since  gone, 

They  can  return  no  more, — 
And  he,  once  innocent  and  blithe, 

Is  changed  e'en  to  the  core.— 

Oh,  cruel  fate  that  wrought  the  deed 
That  turned  his  heart  to  stone, 

That  stole  away  his  innocence, 
And  left  his  soul  alone, 

Thou  rnight'st  have  done  a  kinder  thing 

And  yet  deserved  thy  name! 
But  no:  thou  wouldst  not  kinder  be 

And  save  a  life  from  shame. — 

One  day  he  met  a  pretty  maid, 
Of  rather  modest  mien, 
87 


Whose  love  for  him  he  read  as  soon 
As  he  her  face  had  seen. 

He  liked  her,  too,  and  often  was 

In  company  with  her, 
And  as  the  days  and  weeks  passed  by 

Much  more  attached  they  were. 

But  yet  he  hardly  loved  the  girl, 
Though  she  loved  him,  she  said; 

So  he  had  dared  think — to  himself — 
That  some  day  they  would  wed. 

But  then  the  tempter  came  to  her 
And  she,  poor  suffering  girl, 

Could  not  resist,  but  yielded  up 
Her  honor,  her  life's  pearl. 

Her  face,  from  then,  was  different 

Than  he  had  seen  before; 
She  could  not  look  straight  in  his  eyes; 

She  trembled  more  and  more. 

He  asked  her  what  the  matter  was: 
She  said  'twas  nothing  much; 

But,  since  he  had  observed,  he  could 
Not  be  content  with  such. 

So  he  began  to  question  her, 
And  she,  'mid  tears  and  pain, 
88 


Confessed  and  begged  that  he  forgive 
And  take  her  back  again. — 

Oh,  cruel  dart  that  pierced  his  breast 
And  left  thy  flint  head  where 

A  heart  did  once  in  pleasure  throb, 
Thou'st  robbed  his  bosom's  lair.— 

He  could  not  think  the  same  of  her; 

He  cherished  naught  but  scorn; 
He  chided  her  with  fiendish  glee: 

She  was  downcast,  forlorn. 

"False  woman,  why  didst  thou  not  think 
Of  all  this  shame  and  woe," 

Said  he,  "  ere  yielding  up  thy  name 
And  maidenhood?     Now  go!" 

"And  never  let  me  see  thy  face 

Again  here  on  this  earth 
While  life  shall  last  and  I  have  breath, 

While  honor  has  its  worth." 

"Thou  saidst  to  me  that  thou  didst  love 

Me,  but  hast  proved  a  lie, 
And  now  hast  impudence  to  ask 

That  I  forgive.     Could  I 

Forgive  a  thousand  times  thy  wrong, 
I  never  should  forget 
89 


Thy  bland,  deceitful  countenance, 
Thy  promise  false. — And  yet, 

Was  it  thy  fault  that  thou  didst  yield 

And  barter  thy  good  name 
To  one  of  such  ignoble  birth 

For  ignominious  shame?" — 

"Ah  yes;  too  well  thou  knew  his  tale 

Of  life,  his  character; 
Too  well  thou  knew  what  he  had  been; 

Full  well  knew  who  thou  were." 

"Hadst  thou  not  known  his  vile  repute, 

Nor  designed  his  intentk 
Hadst  not  been  warned  nor  cautioned  'gainst 

The  way  in  which  thou  went,   %vfr 

There  might,  perchance,  be  some  excuse 

For  this  mishap  of  thine  : 
Thou  hast  gone  headlong  into  it; 

Thou  must  now  wail  and  pine." 

"Thy  future  life  shall  be  despair, 

Thy  past  one  deep  regret; 
Thy  lonely  hours  shall  be  in  shame; 

Nor  shalt  thou  e'er  forget 

The  purity  which  once  was-thine, 
The  pleasure  of  those  days 
90 


When  thou  Wert  clothed  in  virtuous  robe* 
When  thou  wert  chaste  in  ways." 

"The  phantom  of  thy  purer  life 
Shall  haunt  thee  in  thy  sleep; 

The  terror  of  thy  faded  bloom 

Shall  pierce  thy  day  dreams  deep/' 

"Thy  bare  existence  until  death 

Shall  be  as  Hades  dark; 
Thy  reddened  glare  of  tainted  love 

Shall  glow  a  mere,  small  spark." 

"The  liking  which  I  had  for  thee 

Is  gone  fore'er;  has  flown 
Away  to  find  a  worthier  soul — 

And  left  me  sad,  alone." 

"But  yet,  Fate  hath  not  baffled  me; 

I  have  a  weapon  still. 
Though  one  has  proven  false  to  me, 

I  cannot  and  I  will 

Not  think  that  womankind  is  false* 

That  none  is  good  and  pure, 
For  I've  a  mother,  sisters  too, 

Whom  I'd  profane,  I'm  sure, 

Were  I  to  countenance  such  thought* 
Such  vile  indecency 

91 


Is  for  some  baser  animal 
Than  I  could  ever  be." 

His  faith,  though  shattered,  was  not  lost; 

He  would  not  all  condemn 
Because  this  one  had  done  a  wrong: 

Such  thought  was  base  to  him. 
July,  1904. 


PRESENTATION    POEM. 

[Written  for  my  sister  Allene-] 

Dear  Friend,  my  teacher  for  the  bygone  term, 
Accept  this  token  of  my  love  for  thee, 

For  from  thee  many  lessons  did  I  learn 
And  much  of  thy  blithe,  kindly  nature  see. 

Thy  kindness  unto  me  and  loving  care 

While  through  the  streets  of  knowledge  I 

did  roam, 
Thy  willingness,  benevolent  and  fair, 

To  teach  and  tell  me  things  which   thou 
hast  known, 

Which  always  do  portray  themselves  so  well 
In  thy  expressive  countenance,  thy  smile, 
92 


And  which  to  all  beholding  do  foretell 

Thy  kind  intentions  towards   them   all   the 
while 

To  make  them  happy,  by  thy  blithesome  face, 
Thy  beauteous,  characteristic  grace, 

Time  ne'er  shall  from  my  memory  erase, 
Though   many   years   be    swallowed    into 
space. 

This  simple  token,  though  of  little  worth, 
And  of  the  things  which  transpire  here  on 

earth, 

Expressive  is  of  feeling  which  was  born 
Out  of  kind  treatment,  which  no  heart  can 

scorn. 
June,  1899. 


HALLOWE'EN. 

[To  a  Friend.] 

Last  night  was  Hallowe'en,  you  know; 

The  cowbells  rang,  the  horns  did  blow, 
The  goblins  stalked  o'er  stones  and  planks 

And  small  boys  played  their  annual  pranks. 

The  women  dressed  in  men's  attire; 

The  small  girl,  too,  quenched  her  desire 
93 


To  get  into  her  brother's  pants: 

The  hollow  pumpkin  had  its  chance. 

The  sidewalks  creaked,  the  street  cars  balked, 
The   sign   boards    moved,  the  lamp  posts 
mocked, 

The  wagons  went  to  roof  resorts 

And  front  gates  climbed  poles  of  all   sorts. 

The  Indians  at  tobacco  stores 

Went  on  the  warpath  by  the  scores. 

The  ticktacks  played  on  window  panes 

And  stuffed  men  mounted  weather  vanes. 

The  larger  boys  played  other  tricks; 

They  tied  dogs'  tails  to  large-sized   bricks: 
Pinned  placards  on  policemen's  coats 

And  set  fire  to  the  tails  of  goats. 

They   masked   themselves    as    spooks    and 
ghosts 

And  stood  behind  trees  and  big  posts; 
They  set  logs  'gainst  some  folk's  front  doors, 

Then  knocked  and  ran  away,  of  course. 

They  put  torpedoes  on  the  rails 

For  streetcars,  and  painted  cats'  tails; 

And  many  more  such  things  as  these 

They  did,  which  you  may  name  with  ease; 
94 


For,  if  you  were  not  once  a  boy, 

I'm  rather  sure  you  did  enjoy, 
At  some  time,  hearing  stories  told 

Of  how  the  boys  did  do  of  old. 

But  boys  must  have  their  fun  and  play, 
Although  they  often  have  to  pay 

Quite  dearly  for  their  tricks  and  sport, 
Which  sometimes  wind  up  in  a  court. 

Yet,  boys  can  play  their  pranks  and  jokes 
On  numerous  good-natured  folks 

Who  think  that  boys  must  have  their  fun, 
E'en  though  they  sometimes  have  to  run. 

So  Hallowe'en  may  come  and  go, 
And  cranky  folk  may  often  show 
Their  temper,  but  the  boys  don't  care; 
For  what's  a  boy  who  will  not  dare? 
Nov.,  1904. 


AS  WE  SHOULD  BE. 

We  should  be  as  kind  and  cheerful 
As  we  can  here  on  this  earth; 

For  in  Heav'n  we  may  be  judged  by 
What  our  work  in  life  is  worth. 
95 


Life  may  not  always  be  pleasant, 
We  may  oft  feel  grieved  and  sad, 

But  we  should  not  think  that  others 
Have  not  sadness  as  we  had. 

Some  are  rich,  enjoying  pleasures 
Of  this  world  with  careless  ease; 

Some  are  poor  and  laden  with  much 
Sorrow,  deeper  than  the  seas; 

Yet  we  all  should  be  contented, 

Whether  rich,  poor,  sad,  or  gay, 
For  this  life  is  what  we  make  it. — 

There's  some  sunshine  every  day. 
Oct.,  1905. 


A  VALUED  LESSON. 

[Thought  upon  leaving  Exeter.] 

I  sat  beneath  a  stately  elm, 

While  Autumn  round  me  threw  her  cloak, 
As  though  she  would  my  mind  o'erwhelm 

With  thoughts  of  other  lands  and  folk. 

And  as  she  fanned  my  solemn  brow 
With  a  refreshing,  cooling  breeze, 

I  fell  to  thinking  of  the  now 
And  of  the  then  that  is  to  be: 
96 


That  I  am  now  a  student  poor 

In  knowledge  of  this  universe, 
With  many  hardships  to  endure 

Ere  I  may  ope  that  valued  purse. 

And  as  I  sat  reflecting  'lone, 

A  little  bee  came  flying  near 
In  search  of  honey  for  his  cone 

To  feed  him  through  the  winter  drear. 

He  lighted  on  a  tiny  flower, 

Which    swayed    and    bent    beneath     his 

weight, 
But  finding  not  sufficient  dower, 

He  flew  away  and  left  it  straight. 

But  there  his  efforts  did  not  end, 
He  tried  another,  and  one  more, 

And  yet  again  he  tried  to  rend 
Some  from  another  for  his  store. 

And  as  I  turned  unto  my  strain 
Of  thinking,  I  bethought  me  so: 

If  now  I  fail,  I'll  try  again; 

I  shall  succeed  some  time,  I  know. 

And  in  the  then  that  is  to  come 

I'll  look  back  o'er  the  trodden  hill 
And  view  what  persistence  has  done. — 
There's  no  success  without  some  will. 
Sept.,  1905. 

97 


A  WESTERN  REVERIE. 

(Song — To  my  sisters.) 

[Written  on  a  U.  P.  Train  in  Wyoming.] 

When  the  sun  sets  o'er  the  hills  in  the  desolate, 

wild  west 

And  its  crimson,  golden  light  fades  into  blue, 
And  the  dusky  drab  of  eve  steals  up  o'er  their 

rugged  crest, 

Then  it  is,  my  dearest  hearts,  I  think  of  you. 
When  the  far-off  curling  smoke  from  a  camp- 
fire  on  the  plain 

Wends  its  heav'nward  way  far  up  into  the  sky, 
And  the  dim  and  reddened  glare  of  the  disap- 
pearing flame 

Fades  from  sight,  'tis  then  I    wish   that   you 
were  nigh. 

When  the  sky  is  gold  and  blue 

I  am  thinking  still  of  you, 
As  the  setting  sun  displays  his  latest  ray; 

And  when  night  steals  o'er  the  plain 
Thoughts  of  you  arise  again, 

And  my  heart  can  find  no  rest,  so  far  away. 

Night  then  draws  her  starry  veil  o'er  her  dark- 
ened, blushing  face 

And  reflects  the  gentle  memories  of  day, 
98 


And  the  moon  peeps  o'er  the  hill  from  her  cozy 

hiding  place 
And   pours  out  her  soul  in  light  across  my 

way. 

Then,  as  constellations  rise  slowly  on  their   up- 
ward climb, 
And  the  north  star,  too,  lends  me  her  silver 

gleam, 
Phantom  visions  of  you  cross  the  horizon  of  my 

mind, 
And  I  slumber  through   the   beauty   of   the 

dream. 
Aug.,  1905. 


VALE  DICO. 

Dear  Exeter,  I  fare  thee  well  I 

Fore'er  I  leave  thy  hallowed  halls ! 

What  I've  endured,  no  one  can  tell, 
Save  my  sad  heart  locked  in  its  walls. 

This  heart  was  not  so  sad  always, 
It  had  a  blithesome,  happy  strain  ; 

But  now,  alas  1  it's  changed  its  lays 
To  doleful  lines,  more  doleful  pain. 
99 


And  not  because  I  hate  thee  do 
I  take  my  leave  of  thee  for  aye, 

But  'tis  because  I  love  thee  true 
And  fear  to  hurt  thee  if  I  stay. 

For  I  am  human,  with  a  right 
Of  life,  with  feelings,  and  a  soul, 

And  'gainst  race  prejudice  I'll  fight 
As  long  as  I  can  weapons  hold. 

Thy  sons  to  me,  except  a  few 

Have  been  as  brothers  and  as  men  ; 

Have  been  as  fathers  to  me  through 
Adversities  that  proved  them  friends. 

But  some  there  were  as  opposite 
To  them  as  poison  is  to  sweets  ; 

Whose  souls  were  vile  and  ill  befit 

To  mingle  'mong  thy  walls  and  streets. 

1  noted  well  the  hearty  cheer 

And  welcome  from  these  greater  souls: 
I  noted,  too,  with  careful  ear, 

The  silence  of  those  narrow  moles. 

I  noted  well  the  hearty  grip, 

The  pleasant  mien,  the  strong,  firm  voice, 
I  noted,  too,  that  limpid  slip 

Which  names  the  knave  of  narrow  choice. 
100 


If  thou  couldst  speak,  I  feel  well  sure 

That  thou  wouldst  shame  those  baser  hearts, 

That  thou  wouldst  shun  them  as  impure 
And  bid  them  to  their  'customed  parts. 

For  thy  gate,  Phillips  did  decree, 

"  Shall  ever  open  be  to  youth 
From  every  quarter,  equally." 

Whose  principles  are  right  and  truth. 

Now,  as  I  go,  I  bid  thee  feel 

With  all  my  heart  I  say,  Adieu  ! 
Some  other  hall  shall  train  my  zeal 

My  future  destiny  to  woo. 
Oct.,  1905. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DUNBAR. 

[To  his  Mother] 

Is  Dunbar  gone,  forever  and  for  aye  ? 

No,  he  is  not !  his  soul  has  never  died  ; 
His  spirit  form  is  with  us  through  our  day  ; 

Nor  in  our  night  does  it  desert  our  side. 

Though  sweet  "  LIT  Gal  "   may  weep,    "  Ma- 

lindy  "  mourn, 

"  The  Party  "  veil  its  face  with  solemn  crepe 
101 


In  sorrow  for  him  of  whom  they  were  born  ; 
And  though  we,  too,  may  weep  at  his   sad 
fate; 

Yet  one  consoling  thought  remains  to  cheer 
Us  in  this  hour  of  lamentation  deep  : 

His  soul  yet  lives,  is  with  us  year  by  year. 
He  is  not  dead,  for  in  our  midst  he  sleeps 

Enfolded  'tween  the  covers  of  his  books. 

The  old  tree,  torn  with  bullets,  by  the  road 
Still  moans  the  story  of  its  deadened  looks  ; 

The  "  Ole  Mule,"  with  his  lazy  human  load, 

Still  plods  along  his  weary  homeward  way  ; 

"  Malindy  Sings  "  as  sweetly  to  our  mind  ; 
The  "  Uncalled  "  hovers  round  us  as  to  sway 

Our  lives  with  ••  Lyrics,"  poetry  and  rhyme. 

We  need  but  to  unfold  his  clothbound  bier, 
To  take  him  from  his  grave  upon  our  shelves 

And  lend  his  inmost  soul  our  closest  ear, 

And  Dunbar  lives,  and  speaks,   e'en  as  our- 
selves. 

A  life  we  mourn  which  late  we  oft  extolled  ; 
A  work  unfinished,  yet  complete,  we  read, 


£02 


Like  his.  our  lives,  our  talents  will  unfold 
And  bloom   with  beauty,    if  our   hearts   we 

heed. 
Feb.,  1906, 


WRITTEN  AT   THE    REQUEST    OF 
A  SKEPTIC, 

To-day  the  brilliant  sunbeam  hangs 

O'er  all  our  joys,  our  cares, 
Removing  all  of  sorrow's  pangs, 

Depicting  all  its  snares. 

'Tis  nature's  cloak  of  soothing  dreams 

She  throws  about  our  life, 
Admitting  naught  of  sorrow's  beams 

To  mar  our  upward  strife, 
May,  1906. 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

[To  L.  F.  C-] 

When  you  find  yourself  in  sorrow, 

Weighted  down  by  care  and  strife, 
Raise  the  curtain  of  the  morrow 

And  behold  a  brighter  life, 
May,  1906, 

403 


FIDELITY. 

Sweetheart,  for  love  of  you,  I'd  give 

Up  all  the  pleasures  of  this  life, 
And  be  content  fore'er  to  live 

And  love  you,  though  through  endless  strife. 

I'd  give  up  all  the  joys  of  earth 

For  love  of  you,  my  dearest  heart ; 

I'd  forfeit  e'en  my  right  of  birth, 

Than  that  your  love  from  me  should  part. 

The  fiercest  storms  of  life  I'd  brave 
If  but  your  love  were  the  reward. 

I'd  cross  the  sea  of  pain's  dread  wave, 
Nor  would  I  one  complaint  record, 

Nor  say,  nor  feel  one  faint  regret, 
If  'twere  for  love  of  you  I  sailed; 

I'd  suffer  untold  grief,  and  yet, 

No  mortal  ear  should  know  I  wailed. 

I'd  sever  all  the  earthly  ties 

That  bind  me  to  a  living  soul 
And  journey  upward  to  the  skies, 

If  I  but  thought  your  love  the  goal. 

I'd  suffer  all  that  cruel  word 

And  unkind  act  could  e'er  inflict 
104 


Upon  my  heart,  if  I  but  heard, 
One  pledge  of  favor  from  your  lip. 

I'd  suffer  death  a  thousandfold 

For  one  sweet  kiss  from  you,  my  dear, 
If  I  your  love  might  have  and  hold, 

For  death  were  naught  if  love  were  here, 
Nov.,  1905. 


SATAN'S  DREAM. 

[Scene  based  upon  L.  Christine  Jensen's  "Life.1'] 

Ah!  Dead!  What!  Dead!  My  favorite  prince! 
Thou,  whom  I  sent  out  not  long  since 
To  check  those  Christians  on  their  way 
To  Paradise!— I'll  curse  the  day 
That  saw  this  deed!— Ah!  Yes  'tis  true! 
But  look  they  well;  this  day  they'll  rue. 
Poor  prince,  brave  prince,  thy  royal  blood 
Shall  be  avenged:     I'll  cause  a  flood 
Of  Christian  souls  to  fall,  for  this, 
Down  into  my  deep,  dark  abyss. 
Ye  habitants  of  my  abode, 
Come,  rally,  dance,  mine  anger  goad, 
And  register  this  vow:     I  swear 
By  thunderbolt  and  lightning's  glare 
That  I'll  avenge  my  prince's  death, 
105 


That  I  will  draw  no  restful  breath 
Until  I've  brought  their  haughty  souls 
And  cast  them  on  my  bed  of  coals. 

But  hark!     Methinks  I  hear  a  voice! 

Ah,  yes!     Tis  they! — Fools  make  your  choice; 

This  day  shall  be  the  last  you'll  see, 

For  ere  the  morrow  ye  shall  be 

Locked  in  my  deepest,  darkest  cell. 

I  know  my  elves  will  treat  you  well: 

For  bread  they'll  give  you  burning  coals; 

For  water,  teeming,  seething  bowls 

Of  hottest  blazes  of  my  realm; 

When  tired,  your  souls  they'll  overwhelm 

With  tortures  vilest  e'er  conceived. 

Then  Faith  and  Hope  and  Love  must  leave; 

They  cannot  live  within  my  gate, 

For  with  me  dwell  Despair  and  Hate. 

Ha!  Ha!     Proud  Faith,  thou'st  battled  well; 
Before  thy  sword  my  captain  fell; 
But  thou  dost  battle  now  his  peer 
Who  causeth  earth  to  quake  with  fear, 
Who  holdeth  lightning  at  command 
And  sendeth  thunder  through  the  land, 
Who  visiteth  the  earth  with  plagues 
Until  the  haughty  Christian  begs 

106 


For  mercy.     So,  proud  Faith,  look  sharp; 
I'll  yet  destroy  thy  magic  art. 

I'll  show  thee  that  the  Tempter's  power 

Can  overcome  thee,  make  thee  cower; 

I'll  teach  thee  that  revenge  is  sweet, 

While  thou  dost  grovel  at  my  feet. 

Then  I,  Satan,  who  once  did  quail 

Before  thy  gaze,  shall  mock  thy  wail: 

I,  who  the  while  was  terrified 

By  thy  bright  glare,  shall  hail  with  pride 

The  victory:  and  I  shall  wreak 

My  vengeance  on  both  strong  and  weak: 

I'll  overrun  the  land  with  wrong 

And  scatter  discord  'mongst  thy  throng 

Of  idle  followers.     Then  I 

Shall  rule  supreme  o'er  earth  and  sky: 

So,  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Love,  take  care- 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!— Beware! 

Jan.,  1906. 


TO  THE  ORGAN. 

[Written  In  Payson  Church,  Easthampton,  Mass.] 

0,  mass  of  tone  immaculate, 
Of  harmony  most  intricate, 
107 


So  beautiful,  so  consecrate, 

I  love  to  listen  to  thy  song 
As  through  my  melancholy  soul 

It  pours  its  torrents  sweet  and  long. 
I  love  to  listen  to  thy  swell, 
For  thou  dost  deep  emotions  tell. 

My  inmost  soul  is  moved  and  thrilled 
With  joy,  with  sorrow,  sweetness,  hope, 

My  life  with  harmony  is  filled, 
When  thy  great  volume  bursts  the  air, 
Or  soft,  steals  on  me  unaware; 

The  world  with  lyric  beauty  teems; 
My  swift  imagination  sails 

Through  seas  of  melody,  and  dreams. 
A  soul  thou  hast  inborn,  innate; 
And  yet,  thou  art  inanimate, 
Thou  mass  of  tone  immaculate. 
Oct.,  1906. 


TO  A  ROSE  AT  WILLISTON. 

[The  rose  which  grows  behind  South  Hall.] 

Pretty,  ruby,  half-blown  rose, 
Grown  upon  our  campus  green, 

Tell  me,  have  you  any  woes? 
Are  you  happy  as  you  seem? 
108 


Tell  me,  ere  your  beauty  fade, 

Ere  your  fragrant  odor  wane 
'Neath  this  dormitory's  shade, 

Have  you  ever  known  a  pain? 

Oft  I've  passed  behind  this  hall 

To  my  lessons,  to  the  well, 
And  you,  crouched  beneath  the  wall, 

Seemed  to  have  some  tale  to  tell. 

Tell  me  why  your  cheeks  are  red; 

Are  you  blushing,  dainty  flower? 
Why  sometimes  you  droop  your  head; 

Is't  your  melancholy  hour? 

Have  you  heard  the  leaves  are  dying? 

Have  you  seen  them  turn  and  fall? 
Have  the  autumn  breezes,  sighing, 

Whispered  to  you  nature's  call? 

Come,  my  beauty,  tell  me,  pray, 
Should  I  pluck  you  in  your  bloom 

Would  you  live  for  me  one  day, 
Just  to  brighten  up  my  room? 

Twere  a  pity  I  should  take 

You,  sweet,  red  rose,  from  your  thorn, 
Yet,  the  chill  winds  make  you  quake 

And  ere  long  you  will  be  gone: 

109 


Gone  into  that  great  unknown, 
Where  the  beautiful  of  earth 

Springs  up  and  matures,  full  blown, 
In  a  realm  of  song  and  mirth. 

So  I'll  pluck  you,  rosebud  shy, 

From  your  thorn-bush,  chill  and  cold, 

That  your  fragrance,  as  you  die, 
May  be  breathed  into  my  soul. 

Then  I'll  press  and  keep  you,  rose, 
Though  your  ruby  hue  be  gone, 

To  remind  me,  as  time  goes, 
Of  my  life  at  Williston. 

Oct.,  1906. 


THE  DEATH  OP  THE  LEAVES. 

[Published  in  the  Williitonian,  Williston  Seminary.] 

Green  the  grass  is  on  the  campus, 
But  the  leaves  are  turning  brown 

As  the  melancholy  autumn 

Spreads  the  hoar  frost  o'er  the  ground. 

Quivering,  the  leaves  are  waiting 
For  the  call  from  earth's  dark  mold, 
110 


For  she  needs  them  to  protect  her 
From  the  winter's  ice  and  cold. 

When  they  hear  her  call,  they  scamper 
From  their  lofty  summer  home 

Back  to  mother  earth,  who  gave  them, 
Whence  they  never  more  may  roam. 

Silently  they  do  their  bidding; 

Carefully  their  carpet  weave, 
So  that  when  their  work  is  finished, 

No  uncovered  spot  they  leave. 

Closely  to  her  breast  they  hover, 
That  her  life-blood  be  not  chilled, 

Till  the  sun  returns  in  springtime, 
When  their  mission  is  fulfilled. 

But  the  breezes  miss  their  presence, 
Dancing  gaily  in  their  wake, 

So,  in  sorrow,  sighing,  moaning, 
They  bewail  their  playmates'  fate. 

Colder  grow  their  hearts  from  sighing; 

Louder  grow  their  moans  and  wails, 
Till  their  moist  tears  turn  to  snowflakes, 

Covering  o'er  the  new  made  graves. 

And  the  barren  trees,  too,  weeping, 
Lash  the  chill  winds  with  their  limbs 
111 


Till  to  icicles  their  tears  are 
Frozen  by  the  angry  winds. 

Then  the  wood-birds  leave  the  forest, 
For  they  find  no  pleasure  there 

Since  the  little  leaves  have  fallen 
And  the  trees  are  in  despair. 

So  we  should  employ  our  lifetime 
That  our  friends  may  moan  and  grieve 
When  we  leave  this  world,  as  do  the 
Trees  and  winds  the  little  leaves. 
Oct.,  1906. 


WRITTEN  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

[To  M.  E.  G.] 

When  you're  lonely  or  in  sorrow, 

Wipe  away  your  burning  tears 
With  this  token  of  a  friendship 

Which,  yet  short,  may  last  through  years: 

And  when  you  have  reached  the  highest 

Step  upon  the  stair  of  fame, 
Turn  and  wave  to  me  this  kerchief; 

I'll  be  somewhere  in  the  train. 
Dec.,  1905. 

112 


MY  SISTERS 

Would  you  like  to  know  who  occupy  the  best 

place  in  my  heart  ? 
It's  a  secret  but  I'll  tell  you  if  you'll  promise 

not  to  tell, 
For  I  think  they're  just  the  sweetest  girls,  and 

Oh  !  they  are  so  smart 
That    I    love   them    very    dearly — Oh,   you've 

guessed  it,  have  you  ?     Well, 
Now  I  don't  care  if  you  do  know,  for  they're  all 

the  world  to  me, 
And  I  like  to  have  you   know   it. — They're   my 

sisters;  don't  you  see  ? 
Yes,  my  sisters  are  the  dearest  girls  that  I  have 

ever  met: 
I  loved  them  before  I  knew   it,  and   my   love    I 

don't  regret. 
\  was  bashful  when  I  found  it  out,  and  wouldn't 

say  I  did, 
But  I'm  not   afraid  to  own  it  now,  for  I  am  not 

a  "kid." 
1907. 


113 


THE  DAY  OF  REST. 

The  day  of  rest  is  soon  to  come 

When  we'll  fly  to  our  eternal  home 

Where  we  shall  dwell  in  peace  and  rest 

Among  the  myriads  of  the  blest 

Who  have  been  called  from  earthly  cares, 

From  toils  and  trials  and  despairs 

To  that  dear  land  where  peace  doth  reign, 

Where  sorrow  can  no  foothold  gain. 

And  when  we  reach  that  paradise 
And  stand  before  our  Lord  and  Christ. 
We'll  praise  His  name,  for  he  hath  giv'n 
To  us  a  peaceful  home  in  heav'n. 
We  there  shall  meet  our  loved  of  yore, 
Who  now  are  waiting  at  the  door. 
Within  that  home  we'll  dwell  alway, 
Through  time  and  everlasting  day. 

O  Lord,  we  thank  Thee  for  that  home, 
Where  we  can  rest,  no  more  to  roam, 
Where  everlasting  light  doth  'bide 
And  never  doth  its  glory  hide. 
There  in  that  peaceful  bliss  we'll  live, 
Wrapt  in  the  robe  which  Thou  dost  give 
To  those  who  will  accept  Thy  love 
And  sing  Thy  praises  as  above. 
1897. 

114 


ON  THE  GIFT  OF  A  WHISKBROOM. 

[To  R.  C.  R.,  Jr.] 

When  you  have  swept  on  wings  of  fame 
Far  past  these  souls  more  common  sired, 

Pray,  brush  the  dead  dust  from  your  name, 
That  I  may  view  and  be  inspired. 

Dec.,  1905. 


ON  THE  GIFT  OF  A  THERMOMETER 

[To  A.  L.  C.] 

When  you  have  soared  thorough  dizzy  air 
And  cut  your  name  on  fame's  high  cliff, 

Please  take  the  temperature  there 

And  drop  it  to  me  as  a  gift. 
Dec.,  1905. 


ON  A  CLOTHES  BRUSH. 

As  you  may  brush  your  clothes  at  times, 
So  that  no  grain  of  dust  remain 

To  mar  their  good  aspect, 
I  ask  one  favor  through  these  lines; 
That  you  will  keep  the  giver's  name 

Free  from  dust  of  neglect. 
Dec.,  1905. 

115 


THE  HEARTS  OF  AMERICA. 

[To  a  Friend.] 

The  heart  of  the  South,  my  little  girl, 

Is  as  hard  and  rigid  as  stone; 
It  tortures  to  death  with  knife  and  flame 

Those  of  flesh  and  blood  of  its  own. 

The  heart  of  the  North,  my  little  maid, 

Is  as  ice,  so  frigid,  so  cold; 
It  listens  and  looks,  but  answers  not 

To  the  wails  of  colored  folk's  souls. 

The  heart  of  the  South,  my  little  child, 
Is  as  black  as  midnight  with  crime; 

Nor  can  it  erase  those  murd'rous  stains 
Through  the  endless  ages  of  time, 

The  heart  of  the  North,  my  wond'ring  babe, 

Is  devoid  of  feeling  as  steel; 
It  enforces  not  our  country's  laws, 

Although  millions  of  us  appeal. 

The  heart  of  the  Negro,  little  dear, 
Which  was  once  so  tender  and  kind, 

Is  bitter  against  both  South  and  North, 
Since  in  neither  justice  it  finds. 

But  Liberty's  heart,  my  little  one, 
May  be  sleeping,  but  is  not  dead; 
116 


And  when  it  awakes,  as  soon  it  must, 
There  may  be  some  rivers  of  red. 

The  heart  of  the  man  oppressed  and  wronged 
Yearns  for  vengeance,  justice  and  right, 

And  once  it  begins  its  angry  course 
It  increases  much  fold  in  might. 

The  Negro,  who  would  not  dare  to  stand 
Fighting  bravely  for  life  and  home, 

Is  worth  but  to  live  a  traitor's  life; 
But  to  die  unclaimed  by  his  own. 

Dec.,  1906. 


TO  A  BUNCH  OF  CARNATIONS, 

(Dedicated  to  the  Donors.) 

[Published  in  the  Enterprise,  Easthampton.] 

I  wonder  if  you,  flowers,  know 

The  happiness  you  bring  to  me. 
I  wonder  if  you  have  a  soul, 

And  feel  my  gratitude  and  glee. 

I  wonder  if  your  pretty  smile 

And  pleasant  face,  your  graceful  form 
Were  stolen  from  your  donors  while 

They  placed  their  dainty  card  hereon. 
117 


I  wonder  if  you  felt  the  thrill 
Of  joy  you  gave  my  lonely  heart: 

I  wonder  if  your  petals  still 

Will  live,  when  their  sweet  odors  part 

Tis  sad  to  think  that  you  must  die 
And  all  your  beauty  fade  away, 

Not  even  in  a  grave  to  lie 

And  moulder  till  some  brighter  day. 

But  yours  a  mission  is  of  love, 
Of  good,  of  happiness,  of  faith: 

Sent  by  the  power  from  above, 

You  cheer  the  great,  nor  scorn  the  waif, 

Tis  sad  to  think  you  have  no  voice, 
That  you  might  tell  your  heart's  intent; 

Tis  sad  to  know  you  have  no  choice 
To  leave  me  e'en  your  fragrant  scent. 

I  wish  I  had  the  power  to  give 
You  back  unto  your  root  and  vine: 

I  wish  you  might  forever  live 

To  cheer  the  lonely  souls  that  pine: 

But  otherwise  it  has  been  willed, 
And  you,  departing,  leave  the  race, 

Yet,  leave  our  lives  with  treasure  filled 
Because  your  life  was  love  and  grace, 

March,  1901. 

118 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

A  sweet  little  soul  have  you,  my  dear, 
A  heart  that  is  true,  in  love  sincere, 
A  manner  so  kind,  a  grace  so  true 
That  hardly  could  one  help  loving  you. 

Nor  this  do  I  say  without  intent; 

Tis  not  for  mere  praise  nor  flatt'ry  meant; 

It  is  my  belief,  from  what  I've  seen 

And  studied  of  you  through  music's  screen. 

As  one  cannot  know  his  real  worth 
While  making  abode  here  on  this  earth, 
So  you  cannot  see,  perhaps,  these  traits 
Which  surely  your  being  permeate, 

And  I  think  it  not  amiss  to  tell 
You  of  your  good  traits  I  see  so  well, 
For,  knowing  what  good  we  do  possess 
May  urge  us  yet  more  to  righteousness. 

Quite  much  have  I  traveled  o'er  these  lands, 
Heard  many  a  voice,  grasped  many  hands, 
Seen  many  a  face,  and  read  each  heart;— 
Experience  has  lent  me  her  art. 

So,  bringing  this  knowledge,  dearly  gained, 
To  bear  on  your  case,  I  feel  sustained 
119 


In  saying,  as  you  have  read  above, 
That  yours  is  a  worthy  soul  to  love. 

With  hatred  of  race  this  land  throughout, 
On  perjury  founded  by  the  South, 
Tis  pleasant,  and  worthy  of  much  praise 
To  find  souls  like  yours  to  light  the  ways. 

The  soul  has  no  color  but  of  eyes, 
Possesses  no  malice,  no  disguise; 
The  soul  knows  no  creed  but  love  and  faith 
It  knows  only  man;  it  knows  no  race. 

That  such  is  the  soul  within  your  breast; 
Your  actions  and  deeds  do  full  attest. 
And  to  such  a  soul  alone  is  given 
That  happiness  which  we  call  our  heaven, 
Feb.,  1907. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  PAST. 

Let  this  the  funeral  of  our  difference  be; 
Let  each  the  other  tell  the  soul's  desire; 
Let  each  disdain  the  other's  faults  to  see, 
And  let  our  hearts  be  kindled  with  that  fire 
That  melts  two  dispositions  into  one 
And  then  withdraws  therefrom  its  greater   heat 
120 


And  leaves  the  rrtolten  mass,  its  mission   done, 
With  warmth  of  love  in  unity  complete. 
But  let  us  not  forget  that  faults  are  ours, 
Nor  be  unmindful  of  their  secret  growth, 
But  ever  strive  with  all  our  latent  powers 
The  ideal  of  perfection  to  approach. 
Then  as  our  lives  are  blended  in  one  strain 
And  two  hearts  with  the  selfsame  impulse  throb, 
With  one   consoling    thought,  each   mind  the 

same, 

May  we  be  happy  while  above  the  sod. 
Jan.,  1907. 


IN  MAY. 

[Written  for  The  Enterprise,  Easthampton,  Mass.] 

In  May  we  launch  our  swift  canoe, 

Unbind  the  sail  and  hoist  her, 
And  at  the  same  time  bid  adieu 
To  our  good  friend,  the  oyster, 
May,  1907. 


121 


WRITTEN"  ON  A  CHRISTMAS 
CARD. 

[To  I.  H.] 

A  friendship  true  is  rare  indeed, 

So,  I  would  cherish  thine, 
For  friendship  springs  from  sincere  hearts, 

From  sentiment  divine. 
Dec.,  1907. 


A  NOVEMBER  SABBATH  MORN, 

[On  Belmont  Heights,  Springfield,  MassO 

Early  on  one  Sunday  morning 
Ere  the  Autumn  had  grown  old, 

I  arose  from  peaceful  sleep  and 
Dressed  myself  to  take  a  stroll, 

Down  the  crooked  streets  I  wandered 

Till  I  met  a  winding  road 
Following  a  deep,  walled  brooklet 

Which,  with  lazy  vigor  flowed 

Through  a  pretty,  narrow  valley, 
Draining  all  the  neighboring  hills 

By  a  system  of  large  drain  pipes 
And  two  busy  little  rills. 
122 


Following  this  road,  I  crossed  the 
Stream  and  bore  off  to  the  left, 

Climbing  up  a  hill  through  which  a 
Narrow  street  was  being  cleft. 

Strolling  'cross  this  meadowed  hilltop 
In  a  brisk  refreshing  breeze, 

I  imbibed  the  breath  of  morning 
Wafted  to  me  by  the  trees. 

But  the  leaves  and  grass  were  dying, 
Worn  out  by  the  summer's  toil, 

E'en  the  little  breeze  was  sighing, 
For  no  warmth  was  in  the  soil. 

Drowsily  the  sun  came  peeping 
O'er  the  housetops  on  the  height, 

Blushing  at  his  late  arising, 

Flooding  all  the  heav'n  with  light. 

From  the  brow  of  Belmont  Heights  my 
Vision  wandered  'cross  the  vale 

To  the  far-off,  peaceful  river, 
Winding  down  its  crooked  trail. 

Towering  from  the  valley  rose  the 
Pointed  steeples,  spires  and  domes, 

As  though  watching  o'er  the  clusters 
At  their  feet  of  quiet  homes. 
123 


Busily  the  engines  glided 

'Long  their  steel  roads  'mong  the  mills, 
Or  on  bridges  o'er  the  river. 

As  a  background,  tiers  of  hills 

Stretched  their  rugged,  dark-hued  ranges 

As  a  wall  on  either  side, 
Stalked  with  pines,  and  here  a  windmill 

Sluggishly  its  labor  plied. 

O'er  this  picture  hung  a  blue  haze, 

Frightened  by  the  rising  sun 
And  retreating  from  his  splendor, 

For  the  day  had  now  begun. 

O'er  the  blue  sky,  like  a  snowdrift, 
Spread  a  thin,  white,  drifted  cloud 

Veiling  o'er  the  moon's  pale  visage* 
Trailing  'round  her  like  a  shroud. 

Pale,  yet  bravely  and  defiant, 
Stood  the  mistress  of  the  night 

Battling  with  the  "great  task- master," 
But  unequal  in  the  fight. 

All  the  little  stars  had  hidden 
When  at  first  they  saw  him  rise, 

For  they  knew  that  he  would  scold  them 
If  they  stayed  out  in  the  skies. 
124 


So,  in  glory,  still  advancing, 
Came  he  on  that  Sabbath  morn, 

Striking  with  his  rays  the  church  bells 
Till  their  tongues  chimed  forth  in  song. 

Long  stood  I  admiring,  wond'ring, 

Dreaming  o'er  the  beauteous  scene, 
Painting  it  with  brush  of  mem'ry 

On  my  mind's  receptive  screen. 
Nov.,  1906. 


TO  THE  WIND  OF  THE  NIGHT, 

Wind  of  the  night,  thou  silent  guardian 

Of  the  peaceful  hours  of  life, 
Bring  unto  me  some  missent  message 

From  some  heart  o'ercome  with  strife; 

Bring  to  me  some  belated  message 
From  some  heart  o'erfilled  with  love; 

Whisper  to  me  some  long-kept  secret 
Of  some  soul  now  gone  above. 

Steed  of  the  air,  thou  swift  conveyor 

Of  the  seasons  of  our  sphere, 
Bear  to  my  heart  that  youth,  that  vigor 

Born  of  happiness  and  cheer. 
125 


Breath  of  the  moon,  thou  great  proclaimer 

Of  the  power  of  our  God, 
Voice  of  the  trees,  and  yet  the  murmur 

Of  the  lowly  shrub,  the  sod, 

Breathe  to  my  soul  some  consolation 
Made  to  soothe  a  lonely  mind, 

Tell  to  my  ear  some  story  brightened 
With  the  promises  of  time. 

Leave  me  not  here  alone  to  ponder, 
Waft  me  to  some  land  of  dreams 

Where  I  may  find  a  sweet  communion, 
For  life  is  not  as  it  seems. 

Nov.,  1906. 


DESOLATION. 

How  desolate  is  life  for  those 
Who  live  within  the  wall  of  woes ; 
Who  come  into  this  world  of  care 
With  naught  but  sorrow  for  their  share 
Who  pine  and  long  for  love,  for  light, 
For  riches,  learning,  or  for  might ; 
Who  dream  by  night  and  toil  by  day, 
Nor  aught  can  find  to  drive  away 
\26 


This  restlessness,  this  grim  desire, 
Nor  e'en  to  satisfy  it's  ire! 

The  coyote  on  the  western  plain 
Which  hardly  sagebrush  can  sustain, 
Which  knows  no  moisture  save  the  dew, 
Which  boasts  no  tree  to  break  the  view, 
Contented  with  the  desert  is, 
For  all  that  he  surveys  is  his. 

The  lean  gray  wolf  that  haunts  the  cave, 
Whose  dreadful  howl  makes  e'en  the  brave 
Man  shudder  when  at  first  he  feels 
His  shriek  which  near  his  blood  congeals, 
That  dogs  the  herd  and  picks  with  care 
The  fattest  bullock  for  his  share, 
Desires  no  different  life  to  lead; 
For  much  he  finds  to  sate  his  greed. 

The  rabbit,  bounding  o'er  the  sands, 
Or  nibbling  sagebrush  as  he  stands 
Or  crouches,  resting  from  his  play, 
Quite  satisfied  is  there  to  stay; 
For  there  his  pleasure  he  pursues 
And  there  he  burrows,  broods  and  woos, 

The  eagle,  sailing  through  the  air, 
Or  screaming  from  the  high  cliffs,  bare, 
Or  swooping  down  upon  some  flock, 
127 


Or  perched  upon  some  lonely  rock, 

Is  happy  in  his  loneliness; 

For  there  securely  he  may  rest. 

But  he  who  of  this  human  stock 

Is  happy  with  his  earthly  lot, 

Who  has  no  troubles,  cares,  nor  pains, 

Who  knows  no  loss,  but  ever  gains, 

Exists  not  in  this  world  of  strife, 

Except  in  that  ideal  life; 

That  life  for  which  men  pine  and  yearn. 

So,  as  some  live  their  years,  they  learn 

That  life  is  bare  and  desolate, 

That  all  is  ruled  by  cruel  fate, 

And  though  they  strive  to  do,  to  know, 

They're  choked  by  penury  and  woe. 

Oct.  1906. 


HE  WHO  LAUGHED  LAST, 
LAUGHED  BEST. 

A  youth  there  was,  of  not  great  education, 
Who  thought  to  raise  himself  above  his  station; 
And  so,  by  constant  toil  and  application 
He  pulled  up  some  few  points  in  estimation; 
128 


And  when  this  he  had  done 
He  thought  his  fame  was  won. — 
A  small  work  he  compiled— 
And  all  the  people  smiled. 

But  dauntlessly  he  toiled  then  all  the  harder, 
For  he'd  resolved  that  he  would  go  much  farther, 
He  knew  that  life  was  hard  for  any  starter, 
And  he  was  not  afraid  to  be  a  martyr. 
So  he  made  up  his  mind 
He'd  try  a  second  time; — 
And  at  this  paragraph 
The  people  fairly  laughed. 

But  not  discouraged  by  this  second  failure, 
His  resolution  donned  a  third  regalia 
And  sallied  forth  this  time  as  an  assailer: 
And  then  began  the  scoffers  to  look  paler; 
For  they  must  now  confess 
That  he  had  made  success. 
They  saw  that  they  had  blundered — 
And  all  the  people  wondered. 
Nov.,  1906. 


129 


A  TALE  OF  A  YOUTH  OF 
BROWN. 

Out  from  the  plains  of  Illinois, 
Out  from  the  town  of  Lincoln's  home, 
Where  the  emancipator's  tomb 
Answers  the  stare  of  state  house  dome, 

Came  forth  a  strippling  of  a  boy. 

Brown  as  a  chestnut  was  his  face, 
Brown  as  two  beans  his  soulful  eyes, 
Curly  his  hair  like  waves  and  black, 
Bright  was  his  face  as  summer  skies: 

He  was  of  Afric's  sunburnt  race. 

"Sweet  was  his  whistle  as  a  birds'," 
"Courteous  his  manner  as  could  be," 
Buoyant  his  spirits  as  the  air, 
Light  was  his  heart,  so  young,  so  free, 

"Mellow  his  voice  as  ever  heard." 

He  was  denied  his  chief  desire, 
Taken  from  school,  fore'er,  perhap, 
But  he,  undaunted  by  his  fate, 
Ran  away  from  his  mother's  lap; 

Left  to  escape  his  father's  ire. 

To  the  great  city  came  this  lad, 
As  yet  unskilled  in  worldly  lore, 
130 


Sought  out  employment  for  himself. 
During  his  leisure  he  would  pore 

Over  some  book,  some  song  he  had. 

Studied  and  worked  he  much  by  night, 
Painted,  and  sang,  and  whistled,  drew 
Pictures  and  whittled  toys  from  wood, 
Did  as  he  thought  he  ought  to  do, 

Lived  as  he  knew  and  loved  the  right; 

For  he  had  known  a  mother's  care, 
Felt  of  her  anguish  and  her  joy, 
Heard  his  grandmother,  late  a  slave, 
Reading  of  David,  shepherd  boy, 

Guarding  his  flocks  from  beast  and  snare. 

Growing,  this  youth  to  manhood  came, 
But  he  had  not  what  he  loved  best, 
Clamored  his  heart  to  learn,  to  know, 
Nor  could  he  feel  content,  at  rest, 

For  he  had  vowed  to  rise  to  fame. 

Finally  heard  he  of  a  school 
Where  he  might  work,  and  in  return 
Receive  the  knowledge  which  he  wished. 
Forthwith  he  went,  alas,  to  learn 

That  southern  prejudice  there  ruled. 

Famed  was  this  school  throughout  the  land. 
Even  from  o'er  the  seas  there  came 
131 


Youth  to  be  educated,  trained, 
Not  only  in  the  paths  of  fame, 

But  in  base  hatred,  man  for  man. 

Sad,  but  resolved,  he  left  its  wails, 
Went  to  a  more  congenial  one 
Where  he  might  have  a  right  to  live; 
He  found  this  right  at  Williston; 

Found  justice,  freedom  in  her  halls; 

Found  friendly  spirit  in  her  town; 
Found  helping  hands  and  willing  hearts 
Brightened,  his  soul  poured  forth  its  strains, 
Pleasing  the  townsfolk  with  his  arts 

Until  they  loved  this  youth  of  brown. 
Dec.,  1906. 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  NEGRO'S 
MIND.     V. 

With  wailing  souls  and  protests  came 

Our  fathers  to  this  virgin  soil, 
Deprived  of  freedom  and  in  chain, 

Denied  the  product  of  their  toll. 

Compelled  to  learn  the  white  man's  art, 
They  learned  to  love  the  white  man's  God, 
132 


And  though  not  of  his  race  a  part, 
They  were  engrafted  to  the  sod. 

For  ages  they  were  wronged  and  robbed 
And  on  the  spoils  this  nation  thrived; 

For  centuries  they  prayed  and  sobbed 
Until  their  prayers  were  recognized. 

But,  though  they  broke  the  iron  band 
And  left  us  freedom,  as  'tis  called, 

We  still  are  bondsmen  in  this  land, 
By  unjust  laws  and  treatment  thralled. 

But  this  much  longer  cannot  be, 
For  we  will  protest  and  will  fight 

Until  as  any  one  we're  free. 
And  can  enjoy  our  every  right. 

For  Is  this  not  our  native  land? 

Have  we  not  toiled  for  this  our  home 
And  bled,  and  made  as  brave  a  stand 

In  its  defense  as  e'er  was  known? 

We've  no  more  rapists,  thieves  and  crooks, 
Nor  do  more  crime,  than  other  folks; 

We  love  as  well  our  arts  and  books 
And  labors;  we  despise  the  yoke 

Of  bondage,  ignorance  and  vice; 
We  are  as  Christian  in  our  deeds; 
133 


And  naught  can  our  demand  suffice 
Which  less  than  fullest  rights  concedes. 

I  know  not  why,  because  of  race, 

We  should  be  shunned,  proscribed,    despised 
By  those  who,  though  of  lighter  face, 

Are  yet  our  kindred  by  the  ties 

Of  creed,  of  native  land,  and  blood. 

I  know  not  why  we  should  pay  tax 
For  government  and  yet  a  flood 

Of  senseless  protest — these  are  facts — 

Should  rise  throughout  our  land's  extent 
When  we  demand  a  voice  and  part 

In  offices  of  government; 

Such  acts  are  tyrannous  at  heart. 

The  Negroes  of  the  Southern  state 
Who  are  denied  the  right  to  vote, 

To  have  a  court  adjudicate 

Their  wrongs,    though   stars   and  stripes  do 
float 

Above  their  heads,  are  treated  worse 
Than  were  the  subjects  of  the  crown 

Before  rebellion  moved  the  curse 
And  shot  the  tyrant's  army  down, 
134 


Shall  we>  who  know  no  other  home, 
Who  speak  the  native  English  tongue, 

Submit  to  wrong  without  a  groan 
And  leave  a  serf's  lot  to  our  young? 

Nol     We  shall  not.     Not  even  beast 
Will  be  abused  without  a  show 

Of  protest.     We  must  be  released; 
We  must  strike  some  decisive  blow. 

If  we  betray  our  fathers'  trust 

Bequeathed  to  us  upon  their  death 

In  civil  war,  may  our  base  dust 

Receive  but  curse  from  human  breath, 

Dec.,  1907. 


A  MEMORIAL  OF  CHILDHOOD, 

Those  days  of  childish  thought  and  joy 

Will  never  come  to  me  again, 
Yet,  there's  no  power  that  can  destroy 

Their  image  drawn  by  mem'ry's  pen, 

Those  days  of  innocence  and  love 
When  I  knew  nothing  of  the  world 

Have  flitted  from  me  Ifke  a  dove; 
Life  has  its  graver  scenes  unfurled, 
135 


Those  happy  days  at  grandma's  knee 
When  I  was  but  a  tottering  babe 

No  more  can  I  expect  to  see, 

For  long  has  she  to  rest  been  laid. 

I  knew  no  sorrows  then,  nor  cares, 
For  mother  for  me  bore  them  all 

And  taught  me  of  the  hidden  snares, 
Lest  I  might  blindly  in  them  fall. 

No  more  will  grandpa  bring  me  sweets 
And  trinkets  when  he  comes  from  work; 

No  more  shall  I  run  out  to  meet 
My  papa  in  my  clean,  new  skirt. 

Those  days  are  gone,  and  in  their  place 
Are  months  of  toil  and  years  of  hope, 

But  I  am  strengthened  in  life's  race 
By  drinking  from  the  springs  they  ope, 

Dec.,  1901. 


A  NOVEMBER  EVENTIDE. 

(Published  in  the  Willistonian.) 

[Written  on  a  Trolly  Car.] 

The  mighty  sun  had  kept  his  steady  course 
Across  the  autumn  sky  of  cold,  steel  gray, 
136 


Before  him  routing  all  the  frosty  chill 

And  spreading  o'er  the  earth  a  cheerful   day, 

And  was  about  to  set  him  down  to  rest, 

To  dream  of  all  the   hearts   he'd   filled   with 
light 

And  leave  the  silver  visage  of  the  moon 

To  rule  o'er  his  dominion  through  the  night, — 

For  Luna  was  his  sweetheart,  loved  of  old, 
Reflected  from  himself  and  fashioned,  too, 

Yet,  fairer  than  his  ruddy  face  of  gold, 
She  took  upon  herself  a  silver  hue. 

But  ere  he'd  finished  quite  his  daily  run, 
His  pale  companion  raised  her  silvery  head 

From  'neath  the  rugged  top  of  Nonotuck 

And  smiled,  and  great  Sol  blushed  a  crimson 
red, 

Still  higher  rose  the  goddess  of  the  night, 
Her  full,  bright  smile  o'erspreading  wood  and 
field: 

Still  lower  sank  her  lover  in  the  west 
Until  Mt.  Pomeroy  his  blush  concealed. 

But  Luna  steered  her  course  across  the  sky 
And    in    his   footsteps,     laughing,   held    the 
chase, 

137 


While  here  on  earth,  more  fortunate  than  she, 
Sweet  Morpheus  held  the  world  in  loved  em- 
brace. 
Nov.,  1907, 


MEMORIAL    DAY    IN 
EASTHAMPTON. 

[Written  for  The  Enterprise,  Easthampton,  Mass.] 

'Twas  kind  of  the  Omnipotent 

To  blow  His  warm  breath  on  the  day 

And  keep  the  rain  in  heavens  pent, 
That  we  in  duty  sad  might  lay 

Our  decorations  on  the  tombs 

Of  heroes  of  our  cruel  wars. 
The  sun  shone  forth  in  splendid  gloom; 

With  drooping  heads  the  trees  and  flowers 

Stood  still  in  thankful  prayer,  or  raised 
Their  joyful  faces  toward  the  heaven 

Exulting  gratefully  in  praise 

For  all  the  goodness  to  us  given. 

No  rain-cloud  marred  the  clear,  blue  sky, 
No  wintry  blast  the  wind  congealed 
138 


While  white-haired  heroes  waved  on  high 
The  tattered  flags  from  battle-field. 

The  fifers  piped  the  shrill  war  note, 
Or  played  the  solemn  funeral  dirge; 

A  feeble  step  marked  each  drum  stroke; 
A  feeble  heart  each  life  did  urge 

As  to  their  comrades'  graves  they  went, 
Each  with  the  weight  of  old  age  bent, 

To  pay  with  laurel  wreaths  and  flowers 
A  nation's  debt  of  thanks.     'Tis  ours 

To  mourn  those  hearts  which  valor  claimed, 
To  shed  tears  o'er  those  graves  unnamed, 

To  cheer  these  heroes  with  us  yet, 
Lest  their  great  service  we  forget. 

'Tis  ours  to  soothe  their  feeble  ills 
Whose  memory  each  true  heart  fills: 

Tis  ours,  when  they  are  passed  and  gone, 
To  take  their  flag  and  follow  on; 

And  as  God  gave  a  day  so  clear, 

So  warm,  from  out  this  spring  so  drear, 

That  we  might  better  pay  respect 

To  those  deceased  whose  graves  we  decked, 

So  will  our  later  days  be  bright, 

Though  weighed  with  years,  our  spirits   light, 
139 


Because  we  have  revered  the  gray 

Old  heroes  on  Memorial  day. 
June,  1907. 


PLEA  OF  THE  NEGRO  SOLDIER. 

("A  Powerful  Poem  and  Foreboding" — Repub- 
lican.) 

[Published  in  Springfield  Republican,  Feb.  16,  1907.  Copied 
by  Boston  Guardian.] 

America,  ungrateful  land! 
Whose  treacherous  soil  my  blood   has   dyed, 
Whose  wealth  my  father's  shackled  hand 
Has  hoarded  up,  who  has  denied 

Me  right  to  live,  to  vote,  to  learn. 
Whose  laws  protect  me  not  from  wrong, 

Who  will  permit  me  not  to  earn 
An  honest  living,  who  in  song 

Doth  boast  a  land  of  freedom,  but 
Whose  flag  waves  o'er  a  land  of  crime, 

The  makers  of  whose  laws  unjust 

Themselves  are  stained  with  blood  and  slime 

Of  murders,  lynchings,  rape  and  lies, 
And  who,  while  yet  the  sacred  oath 
140 


Of  office  on  their  vile  I*ps  lies, 
Will  lead  a  mob  of  comrades  forth 

To  take  some  negro,  innocent, 
Accused  perhaps,  but  never  tried, 

From  custody  of  government 
And  burn  him,  to  a  pillar  tied, 

I  fear  the  dawning  of  thy  doom: 
I  hear  the  voice  of  justice  cry 

From  out  this  wilderness  of  gloom: 
I  see  the  dark  clouds  in  thy  sky. 

From  Boston  massacre,  my  blood 
Through  all  the  channels  of  thy  war 

Has  mingled  with  thy  crimson  flood; 
Through  Yorktown,  Erie,  Wagner, — far 

To  El  Caney  and  San  Juan  Hill, 

Where,  midst  the  charges  awful  din, 

With  song  our  voice  the  air  did  fill 
And  make  that  song  a  battle  hymn. — 

The  Philippines,  so  dearly  bought, 
Are  strewn  with  bodies  of  my  kin; 

My  comrades  have  thy  glory  wrought 
In  war,  in  peace,  with  skill  and  vim, 

Twas  I  who  rescued  from  the  urn 
Of  death  thy  fickle  soldier  chief; 
141 


Tis  he  who  gives  me  in  return 
Disgrace,  dishonor,  no  relief 

From  poverty  my  feeble  years 

Must  bring  me  soon;  he  who  deprives 

Me  of  support  retirement  rears 
Up  for  her  faithful  soldiers'  lives. 

My  thirty  years  of  living  death 

In  bloody  war  avail  me  naught 
When  prejudice  and  perjured  breath 

Of  Brownsville  'gainst  my  name  is  brought. 

And  dost  thou  yet,  ungrateful  land 
Expect  my  blood  and  kin  to  stand 

In  cowered  silence,  while  thy  hand 
Continues  to  despoil  our  band? 

May  God  forbid  that  of  my  race 
A  single  child  shall  e'er  disgrace 

His  native  land,  the  resting  place 
Of  martyred  kin,  by  fear  to  face 

Injustice  by  whomever  thrown. 

The  ancient  Plebeians  of  Rome 
For  treatment  such  renounced  their  home 

And  sought  the  Sacred  Mountain's  dome. 

The  colonies  of  George  the  Third 
To  less  injustice  war  preferred 
142 


And  fired, — the  while  the  world  concurred, — 
The  shot  which  round  the  earth  was  heard. 

Republic  cannot  long  endure 

When  autocrat  can  feel  secure 
To  heap  injustice  on  the  poor 

Or  helpless;  ruin  follows  sure. 

Three  centuries  have  near  rolled  by 
Since  first  our  fathers'  mournful  cry 

And  clank  of  chains  rose  to  thy  sky, 
Nor  yet  have  found  just  cause  to  die. 

Our  voice  of  protest  shall  not  cease 

Until  thy  unjust  bonds  release 
Our  rights,  that  our  lives  may  increase 

In  riches,  happiness  and  peace. 

But  I,  alas!  have  given  all 
In  answer  to  thy  urgent  call, 
Exposed  my  life  to  sword  and  ball, 
And  now,  as  o'er  me  creeps  the  fall 

Of  life,  I  find  no  recompense 
But  base  discharge,  with  no  defense 
Through  which  to  prove  my  innocence, 
Though  I've  committed  no  offense. 

For  this  I've  given  up  my  home 
O'er  hapless  battle-fields  to  roam, 
143 


I've  crossed  the  ocean's  hungry  foam, 
I've  fought  disease  in  hostile  loam. 

O  God  of  justice  and  of  right ! 
If  thou  art  deaf  and  hast  no  sight, 
Lend  me  Thy  weapons  and  Thy  might, 
That  this  last  battle  I  may  fight. 
Feb.,  1907. 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  NEGRO'S 
MIND.     VI. 

Justice,  hast  thou  fled  and  left  us 

In  this  cuel,  unkind  land, 
Where  these  human  wolves  beset  us 

As  we  turn  on  either  hand? 

Reason,  hast  thou  taken  refuge 

In  some  distant,  kinder  clime, 
Leaving  us  in  all  this  deluge 

Of  unjust,  uncivil  crime? 

Mercy,  art  thou  deaf,  unflinching 
To  our  hopeless  wails  and  woes 

As  we're  burned  and  killed  by  lynching, 
Murdered  by  our  hideous  foes? 
144 


Christian,  has  thy  heart,  once  tender, 
Hardened  into  dead,  cold  stone: 

Canst  thou  not  some  service  render, 
Or  dost  thou  these  wrongs  condone? 

Conscience,  art  thou  dreaming,  sleeping, 
Nor  reprovest  thou  these  deeds? 

Civil  progress,  art  thou  creeping 
Back  into  uncivil  weeds? 

Pride,  art  thou  o'erwhelmed  and  blinded 
By  false  prestige,  power  assumed? 

Take  heed  lest  thou  be  reminded 
Suddenly  that  thou  art  doomed. 

Where  is  all  the  honor  boasted. 
Freedom,  principle  and  right, 

Written,  sung,  proclaimed  and  toasted 
Of  this  land  of  wealth  and  might? 

Whittier's  dead  and  Lincoln,  Sumner, 
Garrison  and'  Lovejoy,  Stowe, 

Phillips,  Brown  and  Douglass  slumber, 
While  the  pleas  of  "Fighting  Joe," 

Keifer,  Garrison,  the  younger, 

Higginson,  and  others  few, 
Still  are  scorned,  unquenched  of  hunger, 

Yet  to  justice  they  are  true. 
145 


Wisdom,  hast  thou  lost  thy  power 
To  convince  the  ignorant 

That  as  they  misuse  thy  dower 
They  must  certainly  repent? 

Woe  unto  this  haughty  nation 
If  she  fails  to  keep  her  trust: 

All  are  equal  by  creation; 
All  alike  return  to  dust. 

Dec.,  1901. 


TO  CHICAGO. 

Chicago,  mistress  of  the  lakes, 

Controller  of  our  inland  trade, 
The  freest  city  of  our  states, 

What  wondrous  strides  thy  fame  has  made! 

The  century  has  yet  one-fourth 

Its  years  to  register  with  time 
Since  from  an  humble  Negro's  hearth 

Thou  started  on  thy  upward  climb; 

From  farm  to  Indian  trading-post, 
To  Dearborn's  fort,  to  thriving  town, 

To  city,  till  now  thou  canst  boast 
Of  prestige,  glory  and  renown. 
146 


When  dreadful  fire  laid  waste  thy  land 
Thy  courage  took  a  deeper  drill 

And  sank  its  roots  beneath  the  sand, 
And  since  that  time  has  said,  "I  will." 

As  if  from  magic  rose  thy  blocks 

Like  mountains  towering  to  the  skies; 

The  lake  birds  crowded  to  thy  docks; 
And  o'er  thy  arms  of  steel  and  ties 

Came  people,  money,  shops  and  mills, 
Came  grain  and  livestock;  'cross  thy  plain 

Came  wagons  from  the  eastern  hills; 
And  from  the  South,  to  breathe  again 

The  air  of  freedom  and  of  life, 

Came  sons  of  Africa,  escaped 
From  chains  of  slavery's  deadly  strife, 

And  drank  the  pure  air  of  the  lake. 

Oft  since  Fred  Douglass  thou  hast  heard, 
A  Ransom  shielded  with  thy  walls, 

A  Morris  hast  thou  given  birth; 
Another  Morris  filled  thy  halls 

With  melodies  and  music  sweet. 

Abe  Lincoln,  once,  oft  came  and  went 
From  hall  of  statehouse  to  thy  street: 

And  now  a  Douglass  settlement 
147 


Has  graced  thy  great  community, 

Has  hurled  its  challenge  through  the  land, 

Determined  with  impunity 

For  equal  rights  to  all  to  stand. 

A  Justice  Harlan  is  thy  son, 

A  Celia  Parker  Woolly,  thine, 
A  Marshall  Field, — whose  race  is  run, — 

And  many  of  illustrious  line. 

Thou  city  of  an  Indian  swamp, 
My  second  birth  thou  gavest  me: 

As  through  thy  long  streets  I  did  romp 
I  breathed  thy  spirit  deep  and  free. 

From  thee  I  learned  my  lessons  first 
Of  worldly  care,  of  manly  strife; 

From  thee  I  partly  quenched  my  thirst 
For  knowledge  and  the  greater  life. 

I've  wandered  through  thy  groves  and  parks, 

Thy  boulevards  and  avenues; 
I've  watched  the  sailing  of  thy  barks 

And  mingled  with  the  busy  crews; 

I've  seen  thy  buildings  rent  with  fire; 

I've  seen  thy  towering  structures  rise» 
Each  vieing  to  extend  the  higher, 

In  climbing  upward  toward  the  skies, 
148 


Thou  city  on  a  sand-bar  made, 

I've  seen  thy  wealth  and  people  grow 

To  double  in  one  short  decade; 

I've  felt  thy  piercing,  cold  winds  blow; 

Oh  city  of  the  pioneer, 

I  love  thee  for  thy  great,  free  heart; 
Thou  art  my  foster-mother,  dear, 

And  I  am  of  thyself  a  part. 
Dec.,  1907. 


HAPPINESS  IS  HEAVEN. 

(To  a  Friend.) 

[Written  in  a  Music  Lover's  Calendar.] 

When  music  rises  sweet  from  harmony 

And    steals    her    soothing   strains    throughout 

my  soul 

And  swells  its  living  veins  of  melody 
Until,  sublime  with  ecstasy,  they  burst 
Into  a  flood  of  joy,  exuberance 
And  life  subduing  discord,  sonrow^  strife, 
Then  truly  am  I  in  the  only  heaven 
That  can  exist  for  carnal,  mortal  man; 
For  harmony  is  but  the  voice  of  love, 
And  love  is  but  a  sympathetic  chord 
149 


Of  feeling  which  itself  attaches  to 

The  kindred  particles  of  different 

Existing  organisms  and  binds  them  fast 

Into  sublime,  harmonious  happiness, — 

Securest  state  of  pleasure  grown  from  life: 

Therefore  is  love  the  leveler  of  life. 

The  soul  compounded  is  of  life  and  love, 

The  one  true  state  of  life  is  consciousness 

Of  happiness  in  other  beings  near 

Resulting  largely  from  one's  own  good  deeds; 

And,  as  the  rhythmic  utt'rance  of  the  soul 

Is  poetry,  so,  therefore,  music  the 

Denominator  common  is  of  life. 

Since  heav'n  consists  of   music,  life,  and   love, 

Our  only  heaven,  then,  is  happiness. 

Dec..  1907. 


A  HERO'S  DEED. 

A  southern  mob  upon  a  lynching  bent, 

In  old  Louisiana's  slave-shorn  bound, 
With  murd'rous  hands  and    flaming  firebrands 

went 

In  lawless  chase  to  hunt  a  negro  down. 
150 


Our  hero  kissed  farewell  his  child  and  dame, 
And    bravely   vowed   to   fight   their   coward 
band: 

His  eye  possessed  a  never-failing  aim 
And  steady  as  yon  mountain  was  his  hand. 

He  knew  that  they  were  coming  for  his  life, 
So,  barricading  windows  all  and  doors, 

And  with  his  guns  all  loaded  for  the  strife, 
He  lay  in  wait  for  their  approach   by   scores. 

When  they  had   reached   and  turned   into   his 

gate 
He   fired   a   shot  which  struck  the  foremost 

down, 
And  as   he   fired   he   prayed   he   might  shoot 

straight, 

That   every   shot  should   bring   one  to   the 
ground. 

At  this  they  made  a  rush  toward  his  fort, 
But  his  good  weapons  were  of  truest  steel, 

So  every  bullet  sailed  into  its  port, 

And  soon  some  eight  or   ten   had  ceased   to 
feel. 

They  started  back  in  horror  at  his  deeds, 
For  they  were  all  base  cowards,  every  one; 
151 


Some   tried   to   sneak   up    nearer  through  the 

weeds, 
But  even  they  did  not  escape  his  gun. 

They  tried  all  kinds  of  schemes  to  get  him  out; 
They   sent   a   priest   and   small  child  toward 

the  door, 
But  our  black  hero  aimed  his  rifle  stout, 

And  both  fell  wounded  gravely,  streaked  with 
gore. 

He  knew  his  God  was  with  him  in  the  fight 
And,  therefore,  could  not  be  in  e'en  the  priest; 

He  fought  because  he  knew  that  he  was  right; 
And   thirteen    of  the    mob   their   blood   re- 
leased. 

But  finally,  by  throwing  oil  and  brands, 

They  set  the  house  afire  to  burn  him  'live 
And    chuckled    'mong   themselves   and   wrung 

their  hands, 

For  they    thought   no  escape  he  could  con- 
trive. 

Quite  soon  the  shanty  was  a  mass  of  flames; 
The   rifle    ceased    to    speak;    there  were  no 

tones 

Except  the  crackling  of  the  wood  and  panes: 
The  fiends  were  waiting  'round  to    mock    his 
groans. 

152 


But,  while  they  stood  intently  looking  on, 

The  God  of  Mercy  came  and  succor  gave, 
For,  while  they  watched  the  house  burn,  he  had 

gone: 

The    flame    and   smoke    refused  to    kill  the 
brave. 

The  fire  sent  forth  a  heavy  cloud  of  smoke 
To  make  the  hero  covering  to  the  wood, 

The  wind  obeyed  the  flaming  tongue  that  spoke 
And  wrapped  his  fleeting  form  in    that  dense 
hood 

Until  the  dismal  swamp  stretched  forth  her  arm 
And,  covering  him  with  her  verdant  shawl, 

Fast  wafted  him  beyond  the  reach  of  harm 
And  left  him  north  of  Mason-Dixon's  wall. 

In  vain  they  hunted,  when  the  fire  had  died, 
To  find  his  simmering  bones,  or  ashes  gray; 

In  vain   they    wondered    where   he   could   have 

hied 
Himself  unseen  to  cheat  them  of  their   prey. 

But  this  brave  black  had  made  good  his  escape; 
The   fierce    beasts    even    hindered    not    his 

flight; 

Sweet  Nature  did  his  thirst  and  hunger  sate 
And  shield  him  with  her  cloak  both   day   and 
night. 

.153 


the  mighty  power  that  our  fate  controls 
Had  spoken  and  rebuked  the  dastard  mob! 

Had  sacrificed  a  dozen  hateful  souls 

To  save  one  guiltless  of  a  race  down-trod, 

Dec.,  1907. 


CONSOLATION. 

[Written  in  an  Autograph  Album,  to  M.  E.  G-] 

Although  at  times  our  spirits  seem  oppressed 
And  we  seem  lonely,  sorrowful,  distressed, 
We  may  find  consolation,  after  all, 
By  turning  t'ward  the  pictures  on  the  wall: 
So,  if  you  find  yourself  in  lonely  pain, 
Remember,  sunshine  always  follows  rain> 
Then  turn  you  to  my  humble  photograph 
Upon  the  wall,  or  to  this  autograph, 
And  fancy  there  my  spirit  and  my  soul 
And  it,  perhaps,  your  heartache  will  condole* 
Nov.,  1907. 


154 


AS  WE  LOVE,  so  ARE 
LOVED. 

[To  M.  E.  G.] 

Though  the  soil  be  e'er  so  fertile; 

It  will  not  yield  up  its  fruit 
If  no  showers  fall  upon  it, 

If  no  warmth  caress  its  root. 

Though  the  bud  be  near  to  bursting. 

It  will  not  its  beauty  show 
If  no  moisture  fall  upon  it, 

If  no  sunlight  lend  its  glow. 

Though  the  heart  be  afl  affection, 

It  will  not  its  soul  outpour 
If  no  fervor  be  returned  it, 

If  no  love  knock  at  its  door. 

Just  a  word  of  loving  kindness, 

Just  a  gentle  look*  or  act 
In  our  life,  our  talk,  our  writing 

May  another's  lov®  attract. 

If  we  wish  to  reap  love's  harvest, 

We  must  shed  our  hearts'  warm  raifi 
Of  encouragement  upon  it, 
Or  our  sowing  is  in  vain. 
Dec.,  1907. 

155 


OUR   RECOMPENSE. 

Our  lives  are  the  sweeter  because  we  have  sor- 
rowed; 
Our  love  is  more   tender   because  we   have 

pined; 

Our  sympathy   deeper   because   we    have  suf- 
fered; 

Our  happiness  greater  because  we   are    kind. 
Jan.,  1908. 


TO  WILLISTON  AT  PARTING. 

(Dedicated  to  Dr.  Joseph  H.  Sawyer.) 

[Published  in  the  Willistonian.] 

O  Williston,  a  countless  debt  I  owe 
To  thee  who  hast  assisted  me  in  life, 

For  when  my  eager  zeal  desired  to  know, 
To  do,  when  lone  my  heart,  engulfed  in  strife, 

For  knowledge  cried,  for  opportunity, 

For  equal  right  and  chance  to  live  and  learn, 

To  educate  myself  and  happy  be 

Though  poor,  proscribed,  thou  badst  me  come 
and  earn 

That  lore,  nor  didst  deny  me  of  thine  aid. 

Thy   heart   is   great  and   good,  ordained   of 
God: 

156 


Thy  tribute  have  already  hundreds  paid 

Unto  thine  ear  and  passed  beneath  the   sod; 

And  some  are  marching  feebly  to  the  strains 
Of  that  sweet  rhythm  of  life  they   learned  of 
thee 

As  in  their  youthful  days  they  coursed  thy  lanes 
Of  learning,  while  full  grateful  at  thy  knee 

Bow  I,  that  thy  wise  benediction  may 

In  parting  fall  upon  my  storm-tossed  head, 
That  thy  good  wish  may  pave  my   hard,  rough, 

way 

O'er  thorn,  o'er  wall,  o'er  grave   of   hallowed 
dead. 

And  when  o'er  western  plain  or  eastern  hill 
I  hear  thy  loving  voice  in  later  years 

Speak  words  of  cheer  and  courage  to  me,   still 
My  grateful  heart  shall  lend  thee  eager   ears; 

My  tender  mem'ries  shall  their  petals  ope 
And  show  thee  there  the  full  bloom   of   their 
soul 

And  breathe  their  fragrant,  sunny  breath  of  hope 
And  joy  into  thine  air;— and  then,  the  goal, 

Jan.,  1908. 


157 


LOUISE. 

Can  I  forget  your  loving  mien,  Louise? 

Can  I  forget  your  tender,  trustful  heart? 
Can  I  forget  your  sacrificing  soul? 

Ah  no!     They  are  of  memory  a  part. 

Have  I  not  grateful  seemed  unto  your  mind? 

Then  think  not  of  our  meeting  with  regret, 
For  I  have  often  thought  of  you,  although 

Some  years  have  rounded  now  since  we  have 
met. 

Your  noble,  quadroon  face,  your  pretty  eyes, 
Your  ruddy  cheeks,  your  wavy,  chestnut  hair, 

Your  stately  form,  your  womanly  deport, 
And  e'en  the  music  of  your  voice,  are  there 

Among  the  pictures  of  my  galleried  mind, 
Shut  up  within  its  chambers,  to  await 

My  pleasure  to  release  them  to  my  view, 
My  hungry  tur»ing  toward  the  past  to  sate, 

I  feel  that  this  I  owe  to  you,  Louise, 

For  you  are  yet  the  dear  friend  of   my  youth 

Whose  kindness  and  devotion  shall  not  pine 
For  lack  of  recognition  and  of  truth, 

Jan,,  1908, 

158. 


WOMAN 

Thou,,  woman,  art  a  jewel  of  great  worth 
And  yet  a  worthless  jewel  if  thou  wilt: 

Thou  hast  a  value  rarest  of  the  earth, 
But  thou  art  valueless  when  set  in  guilt. 

Jan..  1908. 


THE  BIRDIE  THAT    HAS  FLOWN. 

[To  a  Friend.] 

A  birdie  entered  in  our  hall  one  day 

In  dainty,    sparkling   plumage   decked,   with 

cheek 
Of  rosy  pink  and  pretty  eyes.     Straightway 

She  glided  t'ward  my  humble   station   meek 

And  perched  herself  in  comfort  on  my  chair. 

And  when  she  oped  her  mouth  and  spoke   to 

me 
Her  voice,  so  sweet  and  musical  and  rare, 

Fell  on  my  ear  and  lingered,  and  so  free 

Did  she  present  me  from  her  silver  purse 
Of  treasure  that  for  joy  my  heart-beat  leaped 

And  listened  to  the  song  she  did  rehearsa 
into  my  ear  Inclined;  and  a§  she  pesped 
159 


Into  my  face  with  sparkling,  smiling  eyes 
Her  heart  seemed  smitten  with  my   pleasant 
mien 

And  poured  its  story  forth  without  disguise 
As  I  a  dainty  morsel  for  this  queen 

Set  down  upon  the  table  at  my  side. 

And  when  her  hunger  she  had  fully  quenched 
She  chirped  good-bye,  then  straight  without  she 
hied, 

And  next  day  came  again  unto  my  bench. 

And  daily  as  I  waited  in  the  hall, 

She  came  and  chatted  with  me  in  delight 

And  left  her  pleasant  treasure,  soul  and  all, 
That  I  might  dream  the  sweeter  through  the 
night. 

But  now  my  bird  has  flown  away  and  gone 
To  cheer  some  other  suitor  with  her  lay 

And  left  me  but  the  echoes  of  her  song 
To  cheer  my  lonely  musings  of  the  day. 

Jan,,  1908, 


160 


IS  MACBETH  A  "GOD  IN 
RUINS?" 

[Written  as  an  Exercise  in  English,  at  Williston.] 

A  god,  Macbeth?^     No  he  is  not  a  god, 
Nor  demigod;  though  hero  still  he  be, 
He  hath  no  deed  to  deify  performed 
That's  not  o'erbalanced  by  some  fiendish  act, 
Some  dev'lish  deed  by  wicked  greed  set  on. 
Unholy  rev'rence  of  ambition's  call 
Hath  robbed  him  of  his  virtue's  saner  self, 
Dethroned  his  God-like  qualities  of  heart 
And  crowned  instead  a  grim,  Satanic  head 
With  blasted,  evil,  fame-shorn  boastful  and 
Unhallowed  glory  of  a  murd'rer's  lot: 
And  yet,  he  hath  a  tender,  kinder  strain 
Which  doth  betimes  express  its  manly  self 
And  seek  to  overpower  its  counterpart 
Of  dark  desire,  but  that  she  demon  of 
His  earthly  tie,  that  gentle  creature  turned 
To  cold,  dead  stone,  also  ambition's  child, 
Unholy  in  her  base  desire  for  name, 
Unsexed  by  evil  passion's  claim  of  power, 
Unseats  his  reason  from  its  holy  throne 
And  places  there  instead  to  rule  his  fate 
The  maddened  fury  of  his  baser  wish; 
And  Macbeth's  mortal  god  of  right  falls  dead, 
Jan.,  1908 

161 


WILLISTON  BATTLE  SONG. 

[Published  in  the  Wiilistonian.] 

Two  football  teams  met  one  day 

Down  on  the  gridiron  gay, 

One  wore  the  colors  to  "Worcester"  true, 

Red  and  black,  as  they  flew 

Out  to  fight  Gold  and  Blue. 

Proudly  they  ran  to  the  field, 

Cheered  by  the  crowd  as  they  wheeled, 

But  ere  the  game  was  done 

With  dear  old  Williston 

They  were  compelled  to  yield, 

CHORUS — 

Let  us  give  a  hearty  cheer 
For  old  Williston  so  dear 
And  for  all  her  sturdy  men 
Winning  laurels  for  old  "Sem," 
May  they  ever  play  so  well 
That  our  spirits  rise  and  swell, 
Let  us  all  join  in  a  rousing,  good  yell! 
Williston!     Rah!     Rah!    Rah!    Williston! 
Rah!  Rah! 

After  the  battle  was  o'er 
'•Worcester"  went  home  worn  and  sore; 
Williston  cheered  for  the  Blue  and  Gold 
While  the  chapel  bell  tolled, 

162 


And  the  bonfire  smoke  rolled, 
So  may  we  always  in  strife, 
Whether  in  school  or  in  life, 
Ever  play  fair  and  in 
All  of  our  struggles  win 
Williston  fame  and  pride. 
Oct.,  1907. 


THE  LATENT  THOUGHT. 

There  is  no  heav'n  such  as  we're  told 
With  marble  halls  and  streets  of  gold, 
Where  angels  wing  their  joyous  flight, 
Where  all  are  clothed  in  robes  of  white, 

There  is  no  hell  of  burning  stone 
Where  wicked  souls  forever  groan 
And  burn, — nor  lives  a  devil  there—- 
Where all  is  darkness  and  despair. 

Our  conscience  is  the  god  we  serve; 
Our  every  act  it  does  observe; 
Our  thoughts  originate  within 
It,  and  we're  turned  by  it  from  sin, 

The  devil  is  no  more  nor  less 
Than  mem'ry  of  our  wickedness 
163 


Ambitious,  covetous  desire 
Of  all  its  servants  does  require. 

Our  happiness  is  all  our  heaven; 
It  is  of  life  the  one  sweet  leaven; 
Remorseful  misery  is  our  hell; 
It  is  of  life  the  solemn  knell. 

Our  highest  aim  while  life  remain 
Should  be  to  stop  some  others'  pain, 
To  do  as  we  would  have  them  do; 
To  make  them  happy,  love  them,  too; 

For  life  is  gone  when  last  we  breathe; 
We  live  no  more  when  this  we  leave; 
And  as  we  live  in  joy  or  fear, 
We  have  our  hell  or  heaven  here, 

If  we  do  good  but  for  the  pay 
We're  offered  "of  eternal  day;" 
If  we  do  naught  but  what  Is  right 
For  fear  of  hell's  eternal  night; 

We  are  unworthy  of  reward — 
We  should  do  good  for  sweet  accord- 
And  we  are  moral  cowards  all. 
If  we  do  good,  whate'er  befall, 

In  order  that  because  we  live 
The  world  may  better  be  and  give 
164 


Us  joy  because  we've  made  it  so, 
No  greater  should  we  wish  to  know; 

For  Heaven  is  a  state  combined 
Of  music,  joy  and  love  refined, 
And  all  these  hover  round  our  soul: 
If  we  but  try,  we  reach  the  goal. 

So,  if  you  would  in  Heaven  be, 
Do  good,  be  happy  and  be  free; 
But  if  to  wickedness  you're  slave 
You'll  enter  hell  before  the  grave. 
Feb.,  1908. 


SHAKESPEARE;  MODERNIZED. 

Who  lynches  me  maims  but  this  modeled  clay; 
And  injures  no  one  but  his  narrow  self, 
Although  in  principle  he  wrongs  a  race, 
For  souls  of  martyrs  have  eternal  life; 
But  he  who  robs  me  of  my  all,  my  name, 
Steals  that  which  cannot  make  him  wealthier, 
But  slanders  me  and  leaves  me  poor  indeed. 
Feb.,  1908. 


165 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  NEGRO'S 
MIND.     VII. 

The  same  air  purifies  our  blood, 

The  same  food  gives  us  health  and   strength, 

The  same  stream  quenches  all  our  thirst, 

All  our  emotions  are  the  same, 

Our  minds  imbibe  the  self-same  thought, 

Our  feelings  wounded  are  the  same, 

Sweet  nature  yields  our  toil  as  much, 

The  flowers  bloom  for  us  as  well, 

We're  born,  we  live,  we  die  the  same, 

When  we  are  dead  the  self-same  sod 

Receives  our  bodies,  and  our  souls 

Are  happy  in  the  heaven,  as  yours, 

'Tis  true  that  our  complexion  is 

Not  light  of  color  as  is  yours, 

But  should  we,  thefore,  be  proscribed 

And  ostracised,  and  scorned,  and  wronged? 

Feb.,  1908. 


TO  ONE  UNKNOWK. 

To  one  unknown  to  me, 
A  lady,  kind  and  good, 
Of  old  New  England  stock, 
Who  saw  I  loved  to  read,—* 
166 


Once  on  a  western  train,— 
And  bought  for  me  a  book, 
Although  she  knew  me  not, 
I  now  indite  these  lines. 

There  are  some  few  great  hearts 
Who  have  compassion  for 
A  struggling,  outcast  race, 
Whose  sympathies  are  moved 
And  touched  with  pity  deep 
To  see  a  worthy  one, 
Deprived  of  equal  chance, 
Still  strive  to  raise  his  state;— 
And  she  was  one  of  them. 

Some  years  have  passed  since  then, 
But  I  have  not  forgot 
Her  kind  and  generous  act. 
Here  in  this  rhymeless  verse 
A  grateful,  proud  heart  sings 
His  lay  of  thankful  praise 
Unto  an  unknown  grace 
And  bids  the  silent  breeze 
To  waft  his  song  to  her 
And  whisper  in  her  ear 
That  it  was  not  in  vain 
She  did  an  act  so  kind. 
March,  1908. 

167 


A  LOVER'S  PROPOSAL. 

My  dear,  sweet  girl;  I  fancy  you 
Because  you  seem  sincere  and  true: 

Because  you  seem  in  thought  so  pure; 
Because  you  have  an  aim  in  life; 
Because  you've  suffered  want  and  strife; 

Because  you  suffer  naught  to  lure 
You  from  the  work  you've  planned  to  do: 
For  Orpheus  you've  set  to  woo. 

I  like  you  for  your  honest  face; 
Your  earnestness  and  easy  grace. 

I  care  not  for  mere  outward  show 
Of  features,  for  'tis  but  a  thin 
Veneering; — lifeless,  bloodless  skin, 

I  find  more  beauty  in  the  glow 
Of  fervency  and  love  and  truth 
That  lights  your  face  and  tints  your  youth 

Than  in  the  facial  handsomeness 
Of  many  girls  who  primp  and  dress 

And  spend  their  time  in  idle  talk; 
Who  can  do  nothing  well  but  be 
Much  talked  of  in  "society;" 

Whose  greatest  pleasure  is  to  mock, 
Or  imitate  some  foppish  flirt, 
To  wear  the  finest  hat  or  skirt,    ~.  • 

168 


True  beauty  dwells  with-in  the  soul, 
And  only  there.     The  face  is  cold 

Without  expression's  tints  and  fires: 
Tis  but  the  mirror  of  the  heart, 
Reflecting  life's  most  studied  art, 

Portraying  feelings,  thoughts,  desires 
And  longings,  agonies  and  pain, 
The  unassuming  and  the  vain. 

The  training  of  your  girlhood  days 
Is  well  defined  in  all  your  ways: 

You  could  not  hide  it  if  you  would. 
It  well  becomes  you  to  obey, 
To  reverence  your  mother's  gray. 

I  like  you,  for  I  think  you're  good. 
I  wonder  if  I'd  ever  rue 
It,  should  I  fall  in  love  with  you. 

To  satisfy  me,  I  shall  say 
That,  if,  in  future,  day  by  day, 

Your  life  and  acts  continue  to 
Be  worthy  as  I  think  you  now 
To  be,  I'll  make  a  solemn  vow 

That  I  shall  love  and  honor  you 
And  trust  you  with  my  name  and  fate, 
If  you  will  but  reciprocate. 
April.,  1906. 

169 


ONLY  THE  SPAN  OF  A  LIFE. 

[To  Mrs.  J.  K.  P.] 

Only  the  span  of  a  life  has  passed 

Since  we  were  two  little  girls 
Romping  and  playing,  with  ne'er  a  care, 

Finding  but  joy  in  our  worlds. 

Only  the  span  of  a  life  has  gone 
Since  we  knew  nothing  of  pain: 

After  a  few  more  of  life's  frail  days 
We  shall  be  painless  again. 

Only  a  space  of  three  score  and  ten, 
Filled  with  some  joy,  with  some  strife, 

Leavened  with  faith,  hope,  ambition,  love, 
Makes  up  what  we  call  a  life. 

Only  the  memoirs  of  childhood  days 
Flit  through  our  worn,  weary  brain 

And,  as  we  dream  of  our  happy  youth, 
Lo!     We  are  children  again. 

But,  as  if  shadows,  they  fly  away, 
Back  to  their  long-guarded  cell, 

There  to  continue  their  romp  and  play 
Till  life  responds  to  death's  knell. 
170 


Only  the  span  of  a  life  has  passed, 
But  we  have  not  lived  for  naught, 

For  we  can  go  to  our  graves  at  last 
Happy  for  what  we  have  wrought. 

May,  1906. 


OUR  AIM  IN  LIFE. 

We  all  should  endeavor  to  make  others  happy, 
For  life  of  itself  enough  sorrow  will  give: 

Our  sympathy,  happiness,  love,  all  have  value — 
The  world  should  be  better  because  we  have 
lived. 

May,  1908. 


To  Mr.  John  Leitch,  proprietor  of  the  Enter- 
prise Printing  Company,  who  has  so  kindly  al- 
lowed me  the  use  of  his  type  and  press,  I  here 
acknowledge  my  gratitude,  and  I  sincerely  thank 
him  and  others  of  my  friends  for  their  kind  and 
helpful  criticism  and  their  assistance  in  reading 
proof. 

The  inspiration  and  feeling  of  several  of  the 
Negro  poems  in  this  book  are  largely  due  to  the 
influence  of  Rev.  Reverdy  C.  Ransom, D.  D. 

Charles  Fred.  White. 
Williston  Seminary,  May,  1908. 


YS' 


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